His Blade Upon My Neck
by Entrenched
Summary: Magnus will do anything to protect the lives of both abnormal and humans alike. How far will she go to protect that life? What happens when that life does not wish to be saved? Dark and dangerous Druitt.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sanctuary or any of its corresponding characters. I will, however, claim the OC female that dabbles with Johnny.

**A/N:** Well considering the recent new episodes of Sanctuary, as well as the flood of new John Druitt related fan fictions; I have come to dabble in the dark and dangerous nature of Jack the Ripper. Please be aware that this story is both dark and at times can become gory. This displays a very POWERFUL John Druitt that people may NOT agree with. So read at your own risk.

We all know that Magnus will do anything, and I do mean anything, to protect the lives of both abnormal and humans alike. But how far will she go to protect that life? This story is a dissection of that character when plagued with a conundrum of choices between someone who has the urge to save everyone and someone who does not wish to be saved.

Not a fluffy story.

* * *

><p>Prickling sensations darted along the back of his neck. Skin tingling in that scintillating notion of being watched from afar. John Druitt cocked his head to the side, reaching over the small circular table to grasp the smooth porcelain cup that held his espresso. Finishing the aromatic drink, he snapped the wrist of his free hand, allowing the <em><strong>Le Figaro<strong>_ newspaper to fold in half in supplication to the move. Reaching into the breast pocket of his tailored suit, he withdrew the necessary compensation for his order along with a very generous tip to his waitress. John rarely enjoyed being ostentatious in this manner, however, years of running and avoiding the authorities taught him several "neat tricks" to avoid suspicion. Waiters, especially ones who were currently struggling to pay for college, would always be discrete when a patron offered a healthy tip. And it always ensured that the service in the next visit would be quick and efficient.

He had only uncrossed his legs before his waitress was already at his side, smiling graciously. "Will you require anything else before you leave, Monsieur Druitt?" she asked in broken English. John could have easily responded in fluent French, however, he had learned that this young woman was currently taking a English course in her University and capitulated to her unspoken request at practicing her English with an Englishman.

"No, Amelia. I require nothing else. And thank you, once again, for the excellent service," John flashed his warmest smile, noting the way the girl flushed at the compliment. '_Poor lass_,' he thought in a detached manner, '_most likely unused to being paid compliments by many people. Well…considering her propensity to allow men to use her in any manner in the false idea that it would foster a healthy future relationship. No. Most definitely not used to such things. I wonder if she will flush in that same manner as I strangle her with my bare hands._' He allowed the sinister thoughts to linger in his mind, the pleasant glow in his eyes turning into a smoldering mixture of heat and lust as the beast within him purred and writhed at the prospect of breaking the young girl. The pink tinge on the young woman's cheeks turned into a fully fledged crimson blush as she misinterpreted the look in his eyes for desire.

"It's no problem at all, monsieur. So far, you are one of my best customers and very kind too," her head bowed down, eyes staring at her shiny black work shoes. She did not know where to look. Staring into his gorgeous blue eyes had her stuttering like a school girl, and she wished to only look refined and worldly for him. Amelia had been working at this café for only six months, and she had come to meet very rude and boorish men and women. Locals were brusque and tourists rarely chatted with her for they were annoyed at her inability to speak English perfectly. Yet this man, Monsieur Druitt, had been patient. At their first meeting, he was talking with another man and although his counterpart held an obvious French accent, the two were speaking in English. Instantly, she had been wrenched with fear at another customer berating her for her broken accented responses. However, her experience that day was unlike her fears. She did not want to be rude and welcome both men in French and had opted for English instead. She saw the flash of annoyance in the local's eyes and he responded to her in quick clipped French for his order.

Fear had once again gripped her heart, but the bald, blue-eyed gentleman had smiled congenially at her. It was as if he had been grateful that she had taken his position into consideration when she had greeted both of them. He had asked her for her name and she replied with little to no hesitation. After a few more snippets of conversation with him questioning her, and her replying with her limited knowledge of English, she had grown too really like Monsieur Druitt. He was patient and encouraged her to speak, even nodding his head and helping her with words to complete her sentences. She had hesitated only once, when his business partner had snorted at her attempts. She was ready to turn tail and run inside the café when the smooth baritones of Monsieur Druitt had spoken sharply and reprimanded the man for his attitude. It resulted in an apology given to her by the rude man and another sincere apology from Monsieur Druitt himself. Shock had consumed her frame. Again, he just smiled and asked her to surprise him with anything. She brought him an espresso, the specialty of their barista, and since then he ordered it every morning when he stopped by the café.

"I'm delighted that I can make your job more pleasant with my little stops," he retorted smoothly as he pocketed his wallet, "and I must say your English has improved quite brilliantly in the past week."

He liked how she bowed her head rather than look him in the eye. _She_ had never done so, always bold in her conversation with him, never once wavering from looking at him directly. Even when she was a demure young woman with her silken blonde curls fashioned atop her head, she would look away but never in submission as young Amelia was currently doing. But, those were of memories of a past that should have been long since forgotten. '_Yes, my little girl. Bow your head to me, submit to my will_.'

Once again, he felt the churning desire of the beast within him. Aching for him to lead her on, take her back to one of the apartments and press the cold metal of his blade currently hidden in the cuffs of his sleeves into her neck and feel the warm sensation of blood flowing as her life ebbed away. He knew that if his blade nicked her carotid artery at the perfect angle, her blood would explode and spurt from the wound and bless him with its crimson glory. John could not help it; he licked his lips in anticipation.

"Thanks to you, Monsieur Druitt. You have helped me improve greatly with conversations," Amelia hesitated, her eyes closing on his tongue peaking out to trace his lips. She swallowed hard as a rush of desire shot down to pool between her legs, making her womb ache and her sex tingle. This was not a side she had ever seen of Monsieur Druitt, but she had guessed at this hidden nature. The man radiated confidence, elegance, a hint of danger, and such powerful sexual electricity that Amelia felt as if her knees would buckle.

Cocking his head to the side, John inhaled deeply. It came as no surprise when the scent of Amelia's arousal flitted across his nostrils. Ever since he accepted the creature within him, John had found all his senses intensifying. His reactions, his power, his instincts had all sharpened to such a fine precision he still shivered in excitement at the new prospects he was now capable of doing. Even better, the final merging, a reaction that he thought would bode unwell for him had in fact turned for the better. His control was now absolute. The creature no longer rallied or fought for full control of his mind, no. Instead, they worked in unison, in compromise. The creature was his instinct, his predator. But John controlled the mind, the logic, and the body.

"You have nothing to thank me for, dear child," he murmured softly. He reached over and lifted her hand to his lips and planted a chaste kiss upon a soft knuckle. In that quick span, John inhaled her scent, memorizing the uniqueness of it; letting it linger at the back of his throat. '_Thoroughly aroused. There is nothing you would not allow me to do to you with only a slight coercion on my end is there ma petite?_' In a fraction of a second, he contemplated rescheduling his plans to accommodate the creature's bloodlust, but curbed the urge. He had not managed to slip these past few months and it would not do to slip now. With this new found control, John was finally able to pick and choose the targets of his bloodlust. His recent dealings were aimed towards the more scrupulous people of society. Abnormal hunters who wanted to trade and enslave abnormals against their will were his only targets so far. He knew that Helen was currently having issues with containing hunters and traders in Old City and even more so with traders around the world.

Her plate was currently full with all the tasks she was currently in charge of as well as her responsibility with other Sanctuaries around the world. Along with the recent rise of abnormal exposure due to the doddering fools known as the government, her rate of relaxation had dropped to nonexistent levels. And so, he had taken it upon himself to help dispose of the more unseemly types that he came across on his travels. This system kept him busy enough, who knew the underground market for abnormal trading was as illustriously large as he had come to find? And the kills helped keep the creature satisfied. Although she had stated empathetically her desire for him to never shadow her doorstep again some 113 odd years ago, John still held the desire to protect and serve her in any fashion that he could without violating the terms of their exchange. Somehow, this seemed to be the most logical way in doing so. Morbidly poetic that his murderous antics, something she had stated clearly as something she abhorred, be the penance in which he redeemed himself to her unseeing eyes.

Dropping the young woman's hand, John gathered his bearings, the mask of lust securely locked away and the pleasant smile once again returned. "Now, don't let me keep you from your job Amelia. I shall hopefully see you tomorrow."

At his goodbye, Amelia's face fell, but she tried to recover quickly by smiling in return. When he turned to leave, she immediately reached out and grasped his arm, relishing the feeling of well toned muscles beneath expensive dark fabric, finally remembering the reason why she had stopped by earlier before he could leave.

"Monsieur Druitt!" John turned and arched a light brow, pausing and waiting for her to explain herself. Amelia instantly moved closer, forced to step on her tip toes in a futile attempt to reach his ears, she barely made it past his shoulders. "There's been a woman who's been staring you down for the past 3 days. She's come again, looking at you."

John nodded his head in understanding and brushed a whisper of a kiss along her temple as a thank you. At the contact, Amelia shuddered in delight, the pang of carnal pleasure ripping through her guts like a red hot poker. John smirked when he felt the vibrations of her body against his own. '_Not even a lover's brush and your body flowers open like a well paid whore._' Tucking the folded newspaper under his arm, John pivoted on his heel, his eyes casting around the faces of the patrons residing outside the café in an innocuous cursory glance. That was when he saw her. His waitress was right, it was the same woman who had come to sit in the same location, and precisely two tables diagonally form his own, every day for the past 3 days. But it was not the first time he had seen her. No, this woman had been persistently following him for several weeks in fact.

She was beautiful, even to an untrained eye. Her features were soft, classical almost with their refined curves and angles. Her nose was small and eloquent, lips flush and pink. This woman, John noted mentally, bore no make-up. '_What a unique woman you are; living in the city where the height of fashion thrives, and yet you sit there with no desire to accentuate your femininity. Who are you trying to hide from so plainly, my mysterious girl?'_

She had shockingly red hair. Not bright, that would leave high school girls to snigger and taunt. No. Her hair was a dark red, burnished in their silken waves and looked soft to touch. Her hair fell down in open trails to rest at her waist, curling at the edges like a lover's hand brushing across her hip. Her eyes, the brightest shade of emerald surrounded by dark lashes, did not hold the look of a forlorn miser, they were sharp, intelligent. Not the level of intelligence _her_ eyes held, but there held potential in those orbs that John could almost drown in the prospects of what he could teach the young woman.

Mentally scoffing at the idea, his lips twisted into a scowl for a brief second. An annoyance to no end. Druitt did not enjoy being pursued; it was not in his nature to play the role of victim. Sighing at the tediousness of it all, he walked onto the busy Parisian streets, knowing full well that he was going to be followed quickly.

'_With the trouble you have gone to maintain my pace, I acquiesce that it is time that we are formally introduced. Let's see who the predator is in this cat and mouse game, my dear._'

* * *

><p>What a peculiar man. He had to be the one. Montague John Druitt. Even his name held a level of strength and respect that was garnered through age, history, and prestige. Regality seemed to pour from every inch of his body as he smiled and conversed with his waitress. Months. She had been searching for months for him. And when she was a hair's breadth away from finally approaching him, finally claiming her dream, he would disappear from her very presence. Off to find a new niche in which he could claim his solitude once more. This man. He was the answer to all her problems. Only he could offer her the release she had ached for all of her life.<p>

Because of this man, she had seen the world. Travelled to countries she would never have dreamed of seeing. But the experiences had fallen on blind eyes. She could not revel in the joy of seeing the streets of Berlin, or the imposing towers of Tokyo, and now the bustling streets of Paris. She could not revel in such beauty; no joy would be expressed in her dead eyes. Only the goal mattered. It exhilarated her to be exposed to the horror in which he lived. Never had she seen such suffering imposed upon another human being until she had seen the after affects of his hobbies. Killing. That was his skill. His gift. His art. It was what she needed.

Through the entire exchange, she kept her eyes glued to the scene before her. For days she had watched him interact with the waitress. Their conversations pleasant, but even she could tell that his server's body language and tone exuded flirtatious connotations. She was disgusted at how that girl could parade around a being like him with the airs of a common strumpet. Someone of that lesser quality had no right to try to beguile him. He would not fall for such an obvious offer. She held down the bile that formed in her throat.

'_You're so close. Don't back down now. So close_,' she mentally chided herself. When the waitress gestured in her direction in an attempt of a discrete manner, the red-haired woman knew she had been found. '_Foolish. He already knew that you were there. His instincts have never failed him whenever you were near. Don't let him see fear._'

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her head to gaze directly at Druitt. For a moment she was shaken at his hard cold gaze penetrating through her as he planted a small kiss on the waitress' temple. It was a taunt. As if he knew that showing the strumpet affection would make her burn hot and cold simultaneously in her seat. No longer able to keep the gaze linked, the redhead turned her face away, ashamed that such a gesture on his end to that _thing_, could make her _feel_ anything. She believed she was long past feeling, no longer capable of such basic human emotions. But as she had learned from their first accidental encounter, only he seemed capable of driving her into expressing something. Like a pestle to a mortar, she was crushed, squeezed, and grinded until the only thing left was dust. It was a sensation she had never felt before.

Courage funneled her next move, twisting her head up to try and regain some semblance of dignity after shamefully turning away. She could not lose; everything she wanted was quintessentially tied to this very moment. But he was already moving, long legs clad in dark Armani pants were slicing across the streets. In the grip of panic, the woman stood, hurling a 20 euro onto the small metal table before rushing to her feet. She could not afford to lose track of him, she did not know how long she could handle clinging to this life. As it was, life was unbearable and to further the hours was torturous.

With no grace in her movements, the young woman barreled her way through the Parisian crowds, making sure her eyes were locked on the tall, bald frame clad in black. Whether she hit passerby's or shoved her way through groups of tourists, she did not care. When he turned the corner of a street, the panic in her movements mutated into sheer terror. He could disappear at any moment and it would take her longer days to track him down once more. And time was no longer a luxury she could endure. Breaking out of the crowd, she slipped into an alleyway; hoping and praying that it would exit into the street in which he had turned to. Perhaps then she would have a chance of confronting him.

Boot clad feet thumped along the dirty alleyways, spraying water upon her clothes as well as the surrounding walls. Again, no worries for her image or her bearing was considered as she twisted and turned, looking at every corner in the hopes of finding an exit. Heart thumping faster than the sound of her feet colliding with the ground, she turned the widest corner she had encountered so far and was met with a concrete wall. Disgusting images and messages painted across the dismal surface brought no relief to the sudden crushed feeling in her chest. Her walls were collapsing and it offered no reprieve for her, no escape, no freedom; just a crushing sense of defeat spiraling into depression.

With a holler akin to a pathetic tortured animal, she slammed her gloved fists against the barrier that prevented her from finding her release. Clawing and mewling her pain, the young woman fell to her knees, not sensing the sudden shift in the air.

* * *

><p>John Druitt turned the corner, his overcoat bellowing with the sudden shift like an omen. Despite the surrounding people, he could still smell the fragrance of the young red-headed female from the café. After months of being pursued by this woman he had grown accustomed to her scent, easily detecting the unique oils that clung to her body. '<em>No perfumes or lotions; just cheap soap. If you're tastes are anything to go by, my little one, the brand name was not even considered upon purchase. Will any little thing do for you?<em>'

He turned the question in his head, savoring different answers and thoughts as one would test a new wine, slowly contemplating the subtle changes in taste as the liquid rolls around the tongue.

When he heard her shuffle into the alleyway, a smile bordering on the edge of evil overtook his features. With ease he avoided oncoming bodies and slipped into the nearest alleyway himself. Not much had changed in Paris the last few years, a few additions here, slight changes there; but Paris was still Paris. Effectively hidden in the shadows of the alley, John centered his mind on a destination. He felt that pull in his chest, the disorientation of molecules being ripped apart before coalescing in an infinite swirl and suddenly solidifying on solid ground. Opening his eyes, the sight of rooftops met his gaze and he smiled serenely at the view. In broad daylight, Paris was not much to look at, but the scenery, depending on where you chose to look, was still quite breathtaking. Mentally bookmarking his next destination to visit while still within this city, he looked over the edge of the roof he occupied. There, rushing along the narrow passages like a rat in the maze was his mysterious little woman. Smirking, he inhaled deeply and was not surprised to smell her panic. It rolled off of her in tidal waves.

The beast within him roared in pleasure at the feel of panic, hunger rising to gnaw at Druitt's stomach like a starving animal. Inhaling deeply once more, he dropped into a crouch and with a burst of speed, ran fluidly across the rooftop. He swiftly reached the edge and with no hesitation, pushed one of his legs off the ledge and leapt across to the neighboring rooftop. Landing with barely a sound, John's grin turned into a feral glint as adrenaline rushed into his system, feeding both him and the beast. Easily bounding the next building, Druitt kept pace with the younger woman, even forced to slow down in order to maintain equal footing with her withering speed.

He was struck speechless at the flood of sensations flowing through his lithe frame. Like a hunter, his senses keen on his prey. Shadowing every move and predicting every decision with ease of experience. His little one was bordering on the edge of hysteria, her movements becoming jerky – one of the first outward signs of panic. He lavished in it. The excitement bubbled within his chest, churning into a wonderful heady mixture. But then, the chase ended. She had reached the end of her destination and the panic spiraled into depression, thickening the air with its morbid fingers like death creeping in at night.

He paused, frustrated that his hunt was cut shorter, right before the apex of his excitement, leaving bitter resentment in its wake. John hated being denied the rush, the thrill of the hunt. When there was no finish to the chase, the dissatisfaction would gnaw at his consciousness like hyenas forced to satiate their hunger on sun-dried bones. Disgusting.

'_Hm, what's this_?' he cocked his head to the side as screams of what he could only categorize as agony flitted towards his ears. '_Crying as if you are in pain…intriguing, my little one._'

Druitt's tongue darted out, as if the action itself would be able to taste the intensity of the young woman's agony within the air. He idly pondered what the flavor of such an emotion would be.

'_Bitter, perhaps…strained with just a tinge of sourness to add that delightfully morbid edge…_,' he thought briefly, the sinister grin returning. The continuous peal of cries brought him back to the reality of the situation unfolding before him. Gathering his thoughts, Druitt forced his mind to calm and imagine the location he wished to transport to. Within moments, he felt the rush against his body before ebbing away as solid ground met his leather clad feet once more. His little one had crumpled upon herself, head pressed against the dirt stained floor, gloved fingers gripping the wall above her like a lifeline, legs tucked haphazardly beneath her body, and red hair tossed about in tangles across the mud caked floor. '_Like a fallen angel. How poetic._' Even his mental tone held more than a hint of sarcasm.

The tall, imposing figure could not help but take in the girl's attire. She wore long brown pants, edges tucked into the calf-high black boots she wore. Her body was covered in a very tasteful light brown, heavily knitted sweater. '_Quite fetching, if a bit anachronistic amongst tank-top clad tourists and scantily clad locals. And gloves? In this weather? What are you forced to hide, my little one?_' His curiosity now piqued. His eyes took an effervescent glow in the dim lighting of the alley. Sapphire orbs taking in the sight of fingers formed into claws, futilely trying to scratch through concrete. Druitt was easily mesmerized by those gloves. The leather appeared to be supple kidskin. '_You do not wear perfumes of any kind. Nor do you take the time to enhance your physical features with cosmetics. And yet, you have spent time purchasing clothes of extremely high quality. Kudos to you, my dear, you have effectively baffled me_.' His fingers itched to touch those gloves, body already knowing that it would feel like soft butter. However, he was left with no sensory confirmation.

"Quite a place to grieve, mademoiselle," he stated gently with arms tucked behind his back. The woman on the floor swiftly raised her head at the sound of the unexpected voice. The shock was so evident upon her face that he had to chuckle at the expression. When she offered no response, Druitt reiterated his statement in French.

"One grieves in the belief that they've lost all they've worked to accomplish," the mysterious woman responded in perfect English with only a slight accent that was not French in nature. Her voice - shaky at first soon melted into a confident tone as the shock slowly faded. Druitt cocked his head to the side; enjoying the trill of her voice. It sounded like bells, soft and light.

"Italian?" he questioned, interested more with the effectiveness of his skills and assumptions rather than her background. The past never held much interest for him in nearly a century, not as it once used to.

"Yes," she whispered, surprised that he had easily detected her place of birth considering she had spent a majority of her life in America after she was taken away from her home country at a very young age, "how did you know?"

Druitt did not respond, merely smiled in her direction before moving. His strides, the woman noted, were long and measured. Each movement powerful and menacing. She knew her heart should have been beating erratically, but being in his presence did not instill any fear, just acceptance and even happiness that it would all finally end. When he stopped in front of her form and kneeled she had expected him to reach out and grip her throat; to crush her esophagus and force her to struggle against his iron like grip. But no such action came and her disappointment was evidently plastered upon her face.

He smirked at the crestfallen image she presented. '_So my little one, I smell no fear in you but you exude disappointment. That flash in your eyes…you know who I am and what I am. How rare for someone like you to desire my presence, fully knowing what I am capable of. You concluded the possibility that I could kill you with such ease here and you welcomed it. My, my, my. You are a curious little one, aren't you?_' Never had Druitt felt such excitement. This woman was an enigma and he wanted to unravel it. His eyes absorbed the sight of her vibrant red hair, now flaccid from the mud and clinging to her skin and clothes. Dirt and grime smeared across her face and cheeks. '_Do you know how glorious you look in a state of such disgrace, my dear? The heavens could weep at how far their little angel has fallen and right into my clutches._'

With a serene air, Druitt reached forward and gently brushed a finger across her cheek before tugging the mud lined hairs plastered there back behind her delicate ear. The sight of her pale neck, completely unmarred by dirt, urged him to lean forward and take one bite; however, he resisted.

If his actions did not confuse her, his next words certainly did, "may I be of any assistance?"

The smile he presented was deceivingly gentle as he proffered a well-manicured hand. Moving automatically, the woman grasped the offered appendage, blushing as she noticed how considerably larger his hand was compared to hers. As the long fingers wrapped around her slender digits, she felt herself tugged to her feet. Had the force of the tug been slightly stronger, her shoulder could have been easily dislocated. Right then and there she was forced to understand and see the menace behind the mask of congeniality he wore. It was a message, that she could easily be dispatched at his chosen time and pace. She felt the fear.

Druitt smirked; he could now smell the terror born from understanding, not panic, emanating from her body as he exerted a microscopic level of strength. He purposely posed the boundaries of their exchange and efficiently took the position of dominant and was pleased when the red headed woman turned her head away and placed her gaze upon the floor. '_Yes my little one, submit to my dominance. Your mind and body already knows who its Master is._' He could feel the beast writhe in pleasure at the submissive nature of the female. '_You want to play with her, but not now._' He felt the responding ire at that comment. '_No! We shall see what she wants. However, do NOT touch her._' The creature recoiled and snapped at the command. John mentally growled and the beast shriveled before submitting.

"Well, I shall assume from your lack of an answer that assistance is not required on my part. I bid you good day, madam," Druitt theatrically bent forward and lifted her gloved hand to his lips, planting a chaste kiss upon the slender appendage. He noted, with silent thrill, that the leather was as soft as he had imagined it earlier. '_And the leather smells even more enchanting than it feels. Lovely. Such quality craftsmanship should be applauded._' Relinquishing her hand, he turned to leave.

"Please! Wait…" her voice trails off, leaving him to pause as he considered her outburst for a second. When he did not turn to face her, she continued, "…please…sir. I really need a moment of your time."

'_Sir…the word falling from your lips laced with such pleading is thrilling. It is not a title of formality you are using, but a term to present your supplication. Good. You know your place._' John cocked his head to the side, "I'm sorry, madam. I fear you have mistaken me for someone else," Druitt replied smoothly, still his back presented towards her.

"You're John Druitt…right?"

"Are you asking me to confirm your assumptions or are you informing me of whom I am? Please, make an effort to be concise in your statements, madam."

"You're John…Montague John Druitt," her voice quaked, the tremble blatantly obvious as she reiterated his name. Druitt's eyes narrowing when she emphasized his Christian name. "Also…known as… Jack the Ripper…" This time, he turned completely to face this bold woman, his face an impassive mask. It had been quite some time since anyone had ever called him by that particular moniker.

'_Bold my little one. Underneath that small slip of a girl is a warrior. I shall enjoy tearing apart those pathetic damaged layers and breaking that strength._'

"And the advantage, I believe, is yours," he quipped, his voice like steel laced with venom.

"Eloisa Fiammetta," again her voice quivered and she mentally cursed the weakness of her demeanor.

"Miss Fiammetta," Druitt bowed his head slightly, "pleasure to finally associate a name with the face that has been following me for quite some time." His comment made her blush; a shameful smear across her features. Suddenly, his demeanor changed, the aggressive stance melting into a welcoming posture. "Fiammetta… Italian in origin meaning 'little fire' is it not?" his tone was light, almost playful.

"Yes…yes it is. My ancestors were known for blacksmithing. The ability to 'mould fire'…"

"Ah, I see. Quite intriguing. And Eloisa? Correct me if I am wrong, but the name is derived from the Latin term Elwisia, meaning healthy and sound?"

"I wouldn't know. I…um…was never quite good at languages," she explained rather poorly, her voice soft and complacent.

He continued to speak as if she had never spoken, ignoring her weak explanation, "in essence, your name can be translated to a 'healthy fire'." Druitt seemed quite pleased at his deriving abilities. "Tell me, does a 'healthy fire' burn within you, Miss Fiammetta?"

At the words 'burn', Eloisa chanced a look into his eyes. The glow that seemed to form around the iris made them appear like pinwheels in the shadows. She felt flames consume her entire body, pooling into her belly. It was a sensation that she had only experienced once and it was with him at their first chance encounter. '_Is this desire? Is this what it feels like to be consumed entirely?_' She felt trapped, like a rodent captured by the intensity of the gaze from the snake ready to strike. When the smile, bordering on the edge of evil, took over his face; she could only think of one word. '_Devil._'

"No. I am no devil," he stated dismissively.

Eloisa was shocked. '_Can he read minds?_'

"And no, I have not adapted the ability to read your thoughts either," the cruel smirk continued to linger upon his face. When no answer was forthcoming on her part he embellished upon his perceptions. "Miss Fiammetta you wear your very thoughts on your face. When your mind assessed the possibility of lusting after me, the look that crossed your face is a look I am quite familiar with," he tucked his hands into his pockets, effectively opening his overcoat and blazer, exposing his trim form, "it is the same look my female victims - from a rather sordid past - had before I murdered them. And they all whispered 'devil' before making peace with the world."

His statement, so casual in their delivery, gave her pause. The word murder seemed to slip from his mouth with such ease as if he were commenting upon the cloudiness of the weather. Seasoned and unperturbed, this was a man born from the coals of misery and strengthened through time and acceptance. She gulped, her throat suddenly dry as her confidence ebbed like the waters lapping at the shores. Forever doomed to infinitely rise and fall in a vicious cycle.

"Given the viciousness of their deaths, I don't see how it's possible for them to have made 'peace with the world'."

"Death is a reprieve for those who have tired of the monotonous routines of life. At the cusp of death, human beings thrash and rally against the inevitable, but over time…when the shock dissipates, they learn to accept what has happened. In the end, every woman made peace with the world." There was no hesitation on his end, his delivery confident and smooth like molten chocolate.

Eloisa's body shook, the explanation shocking her in its simplicity. '_He understands the intricacies of death…_' Clearing her throat, she lifted her head and locked gazes with him, a silent prayer escaping her mind to strengthen her resolve longer than just a few seconds. "And what does the name Druitt mean?"

'_Odd, my little one. Here we are speaking of death and you change the topic back to names. Very slippery, I should watch my words around you, my dear._'

"Interesting you should ask about that particular name. The history truly is very intriguing," Druitt began, his expression scholarly his tone formal, "the name was introduced into the English vernacular by the Normans after the Conquest of 1066 from the Old French forms of 'Driu' and 'Dreu'. The Normans adopted the name from the Old German derivative of 'drogo'. And it is believed that particular term was taken from the Old Saxon language from the word 'drog'," he paused once more, his gaze intensifying as a smirk flitted across his stern features, "which means ghost or phantom." His grin was unmistakably feral.

"So…is that what you are, Mr. Druitt?" her voice was starting to solidify but unfortunately, the intensity of his gaze shattered what little was left of her crumbling resolve. She was forced to look away. Staring demurely at the floor, she idly wondered if her boots were always that dirty. "A phantom?"

The two words were practically whispered and Druitt knew that if his hearing were _normal_, he would have strained to have even caught any of the syllables spoken. But luck and a bit of talent, it seemed, was shining brightly upon him. "Well I have been called far worse than a _phantom_, madam."

'_He's toying with me…he's not taking me seriously…_,' at that thought, Eloisa felt rejection, her body beginning to tremble. '_Not another one! No! I can't let this chance slip by!_'

"Miss Fiammetta, you are trembling," his words were spoken solemnly, almost sympathetically, but the young red-head knew he was far from sympathetic. When Druitt withdrew one hand from his pocket and reached out towards her, she flinched. Her head snapping to the side as her eyes closed reflexively. '_You have the acquired flinch of a dog that has been struck on numerous occasions. Mhm…I'm tempted to backhand one of your rosy cheeks just to see the reaction._' Druitt suppressed the urge, forcing his body to calm down and allow his rationality to assume control of his thoughts. If he wanted to keep her, he would have to take this a step at a time, as it was, he did not know what this impromptu confrontation entailed. '_In due time, I will find what makes this little one whimper._'

"I'm sorry…I suddenly got a chill…must be the weather," her excuse was as pathetic as her shaking form.

"Funny, the weather is quite pleasant. Considering that it is the middle of July, the weather is far from…chilly. Don't you agree?" He swiftly cut her down to size causing her to stiffen perceptibly in his presence. '_You don't enjoy being caught in your web of lies, my little one. You are visibly shaken when the truths are exposed so blatantly in front of you. I shall have to keep that information at the forefront of my mind._'

"Then it must have been your demeanor that left me in chills," she bit back sharply, annoyance coloring her words.

'_Saucy bitch_,' his thoughts purred. '_I knew there was a reason you intrigued me. Hm…however, that attitude must be dealt with._' With calculated movements, Druitt closed the distance between their bodies, his hand moving to wrap around her throat. However, he did not choke her as she had expected him to. Instead, that hand moved to the side of her neck, bracing his palm against the smooth skin as his thumb pressed against the pressure point just underneath her jaw. Eloisa felt the wall against her back, the strength trapped in the lithe body shocked her. She had not even blinked and within a fraction of a second she found herself pinned immobile against the concrete mass behind her.

Druitt pressed into the sensitive point, forcing her had back against the block with a sickening crack. The pain that shot through her skull was unbearable, but she did not feel the tell-tale warmth of blood oozing from an open head wound matting into her hair. '_He's in complete control of his body. He could have killed me, but he is chooses not to…why?_'

"If my demeanor at the moment has left you _chilled_, then my future company will leave much to be desired. You have not even come close to becoming acquainted with the true aspects of my persona, Miss Fiammetta. If you wish to continue this endeavor, then I will leave you with this one and simple warning," he hissed in her ear. The usually smooth baritones of his voice had dropped to a metallic edge. He felt her relax completely under his threat. The trembling that had claimed her body earlier dissipated. '_Pain is the only stimuli you respond to positively. Curiouser and curiouser._'

"I understand," the sound of her voice is soft, yet confident. Her eyes connecting with his, green irises unmistakably looking at him with such confidence, "please forgive me for my earlier comment…it was…uncalled for. I still wish to speak to you about a particular matter."

Druitt released her neck, pleased at how she easily caught upon her slip of the tongue and fell into that submissive role once more. '_This could be fun…_'

"Of course, I was about to partake in a little stroll, would you care to join me Miss Fiammetta?"

"No, I was thinking of a place a bit more private. If that was alright with you."

'_Again with such boldness. Willing to be present in the same room as I, and with no witnesses either. You are quite sterner than I anticipated._' Druitt cocked his head, stepping back to allow her room to gather her bearings. "I am currently staying in a private residence in the country. Is that amenable to your plans?"

"It sounds…perfect…"

"Very good," Druitt offered her the crook of his arm, an amiable smile plastering across his face, "shall we then?"

"Yes, we shall," she hooked her own arm around his, expecting to be walked back to the streets. Instead she felt the ground pull beneath her as her molecules were torn apart.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So what do you guys think of dark Johnny? I know it's a bit…intense, but I wanted John to become what his character should have always been, absolutely dark and dangerous with no remorse or regard. Do you like the story so far? Is it a yes or no?

I look forward to the comments, flames – although they burn, are welcome. Read and review!

-two finger salute-

Entrenched out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sanctuary characters.

**A/N: **Now we take a look into the Sanctuary life! Please understand that this piece is a timeline shift. I am trying to make it as logical as possible while still retaining the integrity of the show and its past, so please bear with me about the minor details. Again I hope you all enjoy the story.

* * *

><p>Helen Magnus dropped the last of the shipment orders onto the cluttered desk. Annoyance was etched onto her features as if they had been chiseled upon her flesh. With the funding from the United Nations removed, as well as having her name black listed with several corporate companies, she was forced to utilize every underhanded scheme in the book just to get standard shipments into her Sanctuaries. It was hard enough that she had to utilize her own personal funds she had saved in the last 113 years of "zen mode", as Will had affectionately labeled it, for her own Sanctuary, she had to budget the remaining global Sanctuaries as well. Unfortunately for her, it was not going very well. She knew that many of the Sanctuary Heads were getting nervous; they had all expressed their outrage at her decision to cut off all government ties without discussing the issue with them first.<p>

Helen could not blame them for their aggression. It was true; she had used her executive power as an excuse to not discuss her final decision. All of them were beyond offended at being disregarded so easily. Instead, she had spoken to Will about her decision and together they came up with a plan to deal with the upcoming visitor. Guilt had haunted her conscience. She had to lie to both her dear friend and Henry about the situation, and given that Henry was currently expecting fatherhood, it was not the greatest path towards teamwork and trust. Fortunately, they had not taken it to heart, their trust were still intact.

Sighing at the complexity of the situation, she sagged in her chair. Not for the first time, Magnus felt her age – all 250+ years of it. She knew it was impossible for her to age, thus she could never truly "feel old". However, her doubts were weighing heavily upon her. She had expected the timeline to remain the same , James and her had taken a particular care in ensuring that everything that Worth had damaged or tainted were effectively destroyed. Despite James' curiosity, he had assisted in destroying every future evidence there was of both Worth and herself without using his high powered perception to garner any future information.

Even with their detailed sweep of the past, the interactions she had with people had affected the timeline either way, the exposure of her future self into the past triggered events of people's decisions. That was not something she could control, with the death of Worth's daughter in the streets rather than the hospital, others had been exposed to a young girl's fate which triggered future decisions regarding their personal choices, and thus disrupted the timeline she had lived. And then there was her fight with John. That was the most irrational choice she had ever made. Her anger at the memory of how John had pressed his blade against her neck had consumed her. Later in the years, as time passed and she had grown accustomed to his presence in and out of her life, she had come to accept the fact that despite his drunken anger, he would never have truly hurt her. His actions that night clearly spoke for him – he had lodged the blade into the wood rather than her neck. He never had any intention to harm her despite his haze of hurt that she would suspect him of killing again and even the betrayal he felt when he his assumptions about James and hers current intimate relationship had been correct.

However, her anger still had consumed her. Helen had been reminded how scared she was, how shaken she had been to see the anger in his eyes. She had felt, for a brief second, how it must have been for those prostitutes with Jack the Ripper looming over them, this wild psychotic look in his eyes and the cold blade pressed against their necks. Helen had never felt fear towards anything, she was a woman of science and she had broken all the rules of society in order to garner respect from the persons within her field. But John had stripped away all of her bravado that night and the ensuing rage had consumed her. She should have walked away from John, should have appeased him in some way. He had already consumed enough alcohol to have forgotten the events the following morning. Instead, she had effectively handed his ass to him. It was only after she had threatened him to leave her bloody well alone from now on that she had realized that the John of this past was not the John of her present. Druitt in her life knew how to fight back; he had trained himself in several martial art techniques as well as other fighting styles. John in the past had no clue how to fight in her level anymore than her past self was able to fight.

It was only after her exposure to changes in her timeline did the intensity of her interaction with Druitt had finally hit home. Helen felt the tell-tale signs of a headache building as she recalled the night that she had the shock of her life.

* * *

><p><strong>[FLASHBACK]<strong>

Mr. Greg Addison and his entourage of employees were "escorted" out of her Sanctuary. Her dear friend and resolute butler had ensured that his leaving was as unpleasant as possible. Even now, Helen had to chuckle at the abrasive grunts that echoed within her home as Addison and company were practically chased and threatened through the front doors. It was the only relief that Helen achieved before the calamity of her situation finally settled. Through the entire exchange, she had been second guessing her decision. Her years of seclusion had brought forth some striking epiphanies that she had never thought of before. One was the memory of her father. Who was now, due to John's bungle with Worth, dead. All she had left of his presence were her memories and this Sanctuary.

Her 113 years of isolation forced her to realize exactly how far she had strayed from her father's vision. He had spent years denying the medical and political world access to his data, constantly fighting humiliation and dissension amongst other scientists for his experiments and theories. Her father had fought, with every fiber of his being, the possibility of ever yielding to any power. She remembered the arguments and the fights that had passed between them. Constantly she had chided him for his lack of vision, of motivation. In return, her father had accused her of having singular vision and not understanding the sensitivity that abnormals had and how important it was to understand the needs they required. Needs that could not be fulfilled through money alone.

'_He was right. I gave up the fundamentals of the Sanctuary the moment I accepted government funding. I thought I was making the best decision, expanding the Sanctuary in order to protect them. Instead, I have given higher authorities complete access to destroy each and every abnormal I have sworn to protect. I've been slowly tying my hands over time, but these bonds are cut as of today._'

With determination, she strode into her office. Needing to prepare for the onslaught she was sure she would receive from the other heads, Helen decided the best way was to attack first. By morning – correction – by tonight, she was sure Addison would have informed the UN that she was being unreasonable and soon all funding would cease by morning. She needed to prepare her counterparts with the knowledge before the government could take action. Before she could reach the door of her office, Will stepped around the corner. His face was a mask of solemnity despite the success of their plan.

"Hey…," he greeted, arms crossing in his usual manner when he prepared to probe her thoughts.

"Hello to you as well," she commented with a cheeky grin. She hoped to all gods and spirits watching over her that he would take that as a sign that she was perfectly stable and meander along to perform whatever task she may have given him earlier. As to what she had told him to do, Magnus could not recall for the life of her.

"Everything cool?" he asked, his face becoming serious. It was the face he portrayed when his "instincts" informed him that there was more to her mental thoughts than met the eye.

"We have successfully cut all ties to an oppressive and dangerous master with their little lapdog being none the wiser of our actions and motives. I would say that a victory such as that would leave us relatively 'cool'." She commented off handedly, never having quite grasped the concept of slang despite the exposure she endured between Will, Henry, and Kate.

"I dunno. You just look a little tense, that's all." He unfolded his arms and shrugged.

'_You went from defensive to casual. Your stance shows that you are trying to appeal to my emotional side by projecting someone who is indifferent, even though you are far from such a state. Very good Will, you are adjusting your posture and attitude to compensate for my defensiveness. But not good enough, Dr. Zimmerman._'

"Well, I am about to call in a meeting with the global network to inform them that they no longer have the luxury they have had in the past few decades. Being relaxed is definitely no longer a viable option considering my decision was made without their consent."

Will visibly winced at that thought, "Yea. They're not going to be happy about that, huh?"

"No, I suppose not," Magnus shrugged, projecting the image of indifference to her young protégé, "but a necessity none the less. However…," she smirked, calculating her moves so as to not drive him to suspicion of her motives in avoiding speaking to him of her reservations, "technically you are still Head of the Sanctuary. Which means it would fall upon your shoulders to inform the others of the incident which occurred tonight as well as what they can expect starting tomorrow."

Flabbergasted, Will stepped back with his hands in the air in surrender. "What? No? I'll pass, Magnus. I'd be jumping naked and bleeding into a tank full of great white sharks." He dropped his hands and pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You know what; I wanna give that back to you. Is there some kind of a ritual thing we gotta do to get this bounty of my head?" He proceeded to wave his arms around his head in random loops. "I'll be more than happy to give you your mojo back."

"And you were doing so well in my absence."

"Well, be that as it may," he mocked her British accent rather poorly, "I really don't like walking in your shoes. Even for a few hours! You have really uncomfortable foot wear." He lamented with a shake of his head.

"But they are _very_ stylish," she winked at Will, a genuine grin breaking through as she opened her office door and strode inside leaving the young doctor to continue down the hallway with his head shaking at her audacity. '_Good, now he's been dealt with._'

Making her way to one of her computer terminals, Magnus keyed in her administrative passcode and settled down in her leather chair. Quickly shuffling through various network windows she connected to the private administrative message link. Quickly tapping in the code for a priority one message another screen popped up confirming that the channel was secure and private and would directly be sent to the personal terminals of each Sanctuary Leader. Magnus paused a moment, unsure how to word the information she needed to forward. How did one tell others that their very livelihood would change dramatically? How could she just callously inform people she had worked beside for years that she had single-mindedly altered their very way of life and it would only grow increasingly harder over time? Life was already difficult as it was with the recent attacks and near exposures but now they no longer had the increased levels of protection from outside sources. The Sanctuary was being rebuilt from the ground up.

'_Well sitting here and staring at the bloody screen will not do me any good._' Gathering her bearings, Magnus began to quickly and efficiently record the message she wanted sent to her leaders.

**To All Sanctuary Leaders:**

**With the recent exposure of abnormals on a global scale, it has come to my attention that we can no longer trust the governments to protect our individual residents. The Sanctuary has undergone some very recent strains and I understand that it has become decidedly more difficult to contain our secrets. With this in mind, I have executed certain decisions that will benefit the direction in which the Sanctuary network will follow. The full extent of those decisions will be given to you tomorrow night. **

**Please do not be alarmed with the withdrawals from corporate companies we have been dealing with. Understand that, although we will be under great financial strain for a few weeks, this decision is the best choice for the Sanctuary in the long term. I trust that you all will have faith in the path we are undergoing.**

**I am calling all Leaders to attend this meeting so that suggestions can be made to initialize the new direction the Sanctuary will be heading. The meeting will occur at 6:00 P.M. in relation to my time here. Please make all necessary accommodations.**

**Respectfully,**

_**Helen Magnus**_

Satisfied with the message, she clicked on the sent image and released the breath that was held captive in her chest. Now all she could do was wait for the sharks to catch the scent and surround her. Suddenly filled with the urge to drink some scotch, she swiveled in her seat with the intention to grab a glass when a beeping on her monitor caught her attention. The message flickered with an exclamation point signaling that the message was encoded. A tap to check the address in the receiver's end, she was surprised to see that it was an encoded visual message from the London Sanctuary.

'_Why on earth would Declan contact me_?' Curiosity piqued, Helen adjusted her position upon the seat and faced the monitor once more. Still confused she accepted the message and waited for the connection to be made. Confusion morphed into shock when the face that met her eyes was not the boyish, light haired British Sanctuary Leader. Instead, seated in front of her and jovially smiling with unearthly glee was none other than James Watson.

"James!" she exclaimed in shock, her mind unprepared to see the ruggedly handsome male on the other end of the comm. His dark eyes twinkled madly and a quirk of a smile could be seen just beneath the well-trimmed goatee.

"No 'darling' this time my dear Helen?" he quipped with a smooth grin. A dark brow cocking as he leaned forward in his seat to appraise her. Magnus, completely frozen in shock opened her mouth, only to close it once more, at a loss for words. She had never expected to ever see her closest friend and former lover ever again. Not since his death during their mission to attain the source blood. At that memory, her heart clenched at the reminder of the day she had lost her only daughter, Ashley.

'_No, I can't think about that now. I need to focus. Obviously the timeline shifted, he should be dead._' Clearing her throat, Magnus tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. The last thing she needed was Watson to begin questioning her, which could prove to be a disastrous revelation. "We have not been lovers in quite a long time, James. That would seem a tad inappropriate." She was taking a complete gamble in assuming that they were no longer lovers, she did not know of the personal changes in her life as of now. '_But if he is still living at the London Sanctuary, most likely we are no longer lovers. James was never the type of man to part from his lovers. He preferred to stay close._'

An odd look crossed Watson's face at her terse response. "What's wrong, Helen? I would think that 113 years of seclusion would have relaxed you. A vacation as long as that would hardly be considered interminable. Instead, you are as tense as ever." His brows creased as his mind worked out infinite calculations and possibilities in seconds.

"I've had a bit of an exhausting day, James." She snapped, her irritation growing when she sensed that he was stalking closer and closer to the truth. At times she hated how he pursued his line of thought with complete disregard to the personal boundaries of others. It was one of the many things they had argued about in their long, _long_ relationship. That and John. John had always been a constant wall between them and a source of many heated exchanges. At times, Magnus wondered if there was more to James' anger towards her ex-fiancé than her still lingering affections for John.

"No…this defensiveness is not from exhaustion…," he continued his through process aloud as if she had never spoken, again irritating her, "…you're tense, agitated almost. And the shock on your face when you saw me clearly indicates that you did not expect to see me at all. In fact, I saw a flash of guilt within your eyes. And considering our…past interactions…." He was of course referring to her dalliance within the past - 113 years ago, "…one can assume that you never expected to ever see me again." He lifted a hand and tapped his scruffy chin as he cocked his head to the side. "Which can only mean that I am not supposed to be alive at all…," he looked pointedly at her through the screen, "…am I Helen?"

'_Damn him! Damn him and his bloody curiosity to hell!_' She mentally swore vehemently, but her face was the mask of pristine innocence. "I have not the vaguest of ideas as to what your conclusions are leading to, James."

"You've never been a horrible liar, my dear." His eyes softened as he realized the prominent vein now throbbing near her temple, just hidden underneath a few wisps of her bangs. He could never corner her; she had attained a soft spot within his heart. His tone turned to an apologetic whisper, "I'm sorry. I know my tendency to pursue the truth can be tedious on the receiving end."

She visibly softened in her chair and hung her head in shame. "It's quite alright James. We're both at fault in this situation. I should have assessed my timeline better than receiving this shock. I did not mean to be short with you. It's just…you…here…alive. I've never…," she could feel it, the tears. They were starting to flow from her eyes but she staunched them before any stray drops could fall. The emotional turmoil was starting get to her and she was incapable of processing the newfound information.

Watson felt his heart stutter at the sight of Helen tearing up. She was unused to being unstable on an emotional level and to show her weakness in front of an audience, even just one person who was closest to her in the entire world, had him filled with guilt in seconds. '_Congratulations Watson, you have made the woman cry! Why can't you learn to leave certain things very well alone!_'

He mentally chided himself for his lack of sensitivity. It was always difficult for him to assume the position of empathy given his mind rationalized emotions with such thorough ease that at times they were rudimentarily broken down to the point of nonexistence. It was one of the regrets he had when injecting the source blood. Feeling, emotions, urges – everything that made humans irrational and unpredictable was hindered with the growth of his intellectual capacities. At times, he would be hit with the full force of his emotional loss when he noticed friends and comrades in need of comfort, and he could not bring it upon himself to feel sympathy. His mind would rationalize and compartmentalize the loss or the grief and process the necessary comforting gestures or form the proper words to express condolences, yet his mind could not process the thought of actual heart-wrenching sympathy.

This affected him deeper than he would like to have admitted. At times, it was comforting to believe that with his astounding mental capacities, emotions were no longer necessary in his life. In fact, the day that Helen and he had ended their rather long relationship, his intellect was the only prospect that eased his pain over the loss. Especially when she had begun to consider the courting gestures of other males in the past few decades, his rationality kept him from screaming out his frustrations. But, when the stark reality of his private situation was laid bare before him like this, he felt the itching sensation to be the old James Watson. Not the mastermind, not the detective, and not the most intuitive mind of the 19th century – just James Watson, the man.

"Well, as you can see Helen, I am very much alive." He offered her a gentle smile, knowing that it would ease her discomfort at appearing less than professional and in control. While she visibly calmed and gathered her bearing, Watson idly tapped his finger on the table he sat near. His mind was curious as to how his death had come about in the first place. Before Helen had gone into seclusion, they ensured that they destroyed all the evidence of her time there – personal identification, personal belongings, weapons, anything and everything; yet the timeline had still shifted. Now that it was the present time, he could finally ask the questions that had been haunting him since he had seen her future self in his past.

"I can see that James. And despite the terseness of our earlier greeting, it makes me unbelievably happy to see you again." Her smile was genuine and soft.

'_That's the Helen I remember._' Watson's guilt eased, not that there was much guilt in the first place given that she was the one who reacted rather aggressively to his presence – his mind had rationalized this seconds after their initial exchange. "Well then, as recourse to your earlier behavior," he winced when he noticed that her jaw clenched almost imperceptibly at his ham-handed way of delivering his reprimand at her discourtesy, "I ask that you answer a few questions that I have."

Magnus wanted nothing more than to tell Watson to shove his questions where the sun wouldn't shine; however, she knew that she had to control her annoyance at his persistent nature. '_It's who he is. That is not something he can help._' She unclenched her jaw and nodded her head. She had a few questions of her own and considering that Watson had been a very prudent part of her decision to isolate herself, she could ask about certain aspects of what her life had been in this timeline without having to avoid awkward questions and curious looks. "Only in exchange for certain questions that I need answered."

Watson nodded his head, understanding that considering he was still alive, there were details about her life now that may not necessarily exist in the life that she remembered. "Of course, my darling Helen." As soon as the endearment left his mouth, he fought the urge to slap himself. Instead, he continued to smile graciously at her, hoping that his lack of correction at the Freudian slip would appear to her as nothing more than their usual exchange. '_You would enjoy that, now wouldn't you Watson? This Helen has no recollection of the monumental fights and arguments that you endured with your Helen in the past few years. It's like starting over fresh for you; a second chance at her heart._'

Helen gave him a blank stare before cautiously continuing, "Since I was rather rude earlier, I believe you should ask your question first."

Watson concurred with a slight nod of his head. "How did I die?"

Helen expected this question first and prepared to answer directly and honestly. "After we retrieved the source blood, there was a massive quake that affected the tunnels of the underground maze. You stated that you did not expect to make it out alive on the journey and you were correct in that assumption. The machinery that kept you alive all these years finally gave out."

"The source blood? We actually managed to retrieve the source blood?" James was flabbergasted at that revelation. Helen saw the confusion and awe upon Watson's face and decided to change her first question.

"We never retrieved the source blood in this timeline, did we?"

"No, not even close." When she gave him that odd look, Watson realized he needed to clarify certain details. "After the test bomb was dropped by the Cabal, one of your teams near the area managed to find remaining bodies of abnormals that were shot by human civilians. I travelled to your Sanctuary in the hopes of finding some cure to this pathogen they were releasing to affect the primal instincts of abnormals. It took nearly a week to find that the corpses held lingering effects of the bio-weapon and started to affect residents at your own Sanctuary. The amounts left in the body were so minimal that we could not fully dissect the pathogen itself. However, we were unaffected. We both concluded that perhaps the source blood was a cure to this virus they released. We had no choice but to go after the source blood.

"Of course, given your father's predilection for making any journey on our end difficult, we needed to gather the Five. We tried to find Nikola, but he would not respond to any of our communications. We had no idea where Druitt was, or if he was even alive." At this comment, Helen mentally scoffed, unprepared with the fact that John had not been present, but she hid her surprise well from James. She also noted that James referred to his old friend as Druitt rather than John and yet she referred to Tesla as Nikola. "Nigel was already dead and your Mr. Foss managed to track down his granddaughter. You sent Will to retrieve her; however, she managed to escape him and disappeared. We were running out of time and so you gambled the possibility that there had to be fail safes in order to retrieve the other member's keys. When we arrived at the ruins, everything had been destroyed. However, with some rather ingenious calculations on my end," Watson smirked rather gleefully at this comment, "we managed to find the entrance. When we made it down to the tunnels, we were greeted by Nikola and that solved 3 of the 5 keys. But the mission proved fruitless. No one was capable of retrieving Nigel's key. And unfortunately, without Druitt, my key was unattainable. The only keys that we had the possibility of retrieving were yours and Tesla's. However, he would not endanger his health if the mission was pointless to begin with."

Helen assessed the information that she just received. '_It took us longer to find the virus because John had never stopped by to deliver the sample of the bomb itself at ground zero. No other person would have been able to withstand such open exposure to the virus itself due to the fact that they did not have the source blood flowing through their veins. Will was not able to capture Clara because it had been John who had tracked her down and caught her. Will was at a disadvantage in the first place while John was trained to hunt. And the key…without John, James could not access his key and therefore they did not spend hours in the tunnels without a way for James to recharge. Thus, he never died_.' It was then that Helen realized the ramifications of her exchange in that alleyway with Druitt. She had warned him to never come near her again, and it seemed he had heeded that warning.

When he ended his recollection of events, he reiterated his last question, "in your timeline, we actually managed to retrieve the source blood?"

"Yes. The four of us and Nigel's granddaughter, Clara. Unfortunately, she did not survive the incident with the Cabal. One of their…agents killed her," she looked away from James for a moment, Clara not being the only casualty of that war. Watson mistook the look of pain and anguish as her regret at losing Nigel's only living legacy to the world. "The Cabal, in my time, managed to steal the source blood after we retrieved it." Helen lost herself in the memory. "We were at a complete disadvantage, James. They knew everything about us! The experiments, the Five, and all of our accomplishments – they knew about it all! It was a long and arduous fight with so many deaths."

Watson leaned back, his eyes glazing over, lost in memory. "The four of us…working together again," he shook his head at the reverie. "That has not happened in decades…as for how they knew so much about us, perhaps I can shed some light into that aspect. Nikola…he was a former employee for the Cabal. They funded his research and experiments. Unfortunately, given his rather chatty attitude, he revealed our history to his employers. When Nikola realized that they would no longer fund his vampire experiments and in essence were only after the information, he tracked us down in the tunnels when he received the communiqué of our intention to capture the source blood. And of course…his intentions were to use the blood to raise his vampire army." Watson shook his head at the antics of their vampiric colleague and found that she was mimicking his actions as well.

Helen gave him the moment he needed to recollect himself before asking her question. "And what happened to the Cabal?"

"Actually, that we have no clue. When we returned from trying to retrieve the source blood, there was an absence of activity on their end for nearly 2 weeks. Then rumors were starting to spread about high ranking officials within the organization disappearing. We assumed that one of the abnormals that they kept locked up managed to break free and terrorize the members. The fight with the Cabal ended when Dana Whitcomb was found dead, her body completely mangled from some vicious attack in France. Official reports indicated that she was on the receiving end of a 'gang-related' discrepancy. However, considering her…less than cordial relations with certain abnormal circles, it would be normal to assume that a group of intelligent abnormals desired to have her eradicated when they realized she no longer held sway over the former powerful organization." He paused, leaning back into his chair and found the courage to verbally communicate the question that had bothered him for so long since their return from the failed attempt to garner the source blood. "Something about that incident with the Cabal has been irking me for quite some time. It felt as if they wanted us to feel desperate enough to proceed with the idea to claim the source blood. And you stated that in your time, they had succeeded in capturing it the moment we retrieved it. Why were they interested in the source blood in the first place? Obviously it was their only objective."

"You are correct James." Helen mirrored his position and leaned back in her chair as well. "The bomb was a ruse for us to feel cornered. With a virus spreading that was specifically made to not affect the Five, we assumed that the cure was firmly held within the source blood. The Cabal was interested in taking the source blood and creating a way to enhance inherent abnormal genetic codes in humans. They planned on injecting a 'perfectly tailored' abnormal DNA into six humans that were genetically scrubbed clean during a project that I regretfully participated in many years ago."

"Clones…," Watson whispered with awe, his eyes effectively widened at the prospect of actually creating a perfect abnormal soldier, "that's what they were trying to achieve. With the source blood, they would be able to control the rate of abnormal production in the genetic code of any human being. Even alter it!" His gaze wavered, eyes lost in a sea of algorithms and possibilities as he mumbled mainly to himself, "and human beings that are genetically perfect could be manipulated to accept the new code…perfect copies…impressive…" After shaking his head clear, he looked up to see that Helen was staring at him oddly and he gave her a sheepish grin, "I'm sorry Helen. It never occurred to me as a possibility that the Cabal would want to create genetic clones. I am a bit floored that they thought of such an intricate experiment." He noted that her sapphire eyes looked away briefly, a mournful note upon her features. He decided not to pursue her in this, the look was far too raw and he feared of what he might find at the source of her sorrow.

Closing her eyes, she swallowed the lump that had formed at her throat. Ashley had been their choice of experimental genetic manipulation. She had been the only plausible choice, having been conceived only after John and she had injected the source blood which had altered both their genetic codes. She could taste the bitter saltiness of unshed tears glide down her esophagus before returning her gaze upon Watson once more. "It's quite alright James; I know how these scientific anomalies excite your inexhaustible mind."

'_You say that, my dear. However your face shows that the subject is not something you wish to discuss. And you're smile is far too bitter to be forgiving._' He smiled congenially before planting his elbows upon the table, fingers entwining and chin resting the bed of knuckles he had created. "Now whose question was it?"

"I believe that it is my question now." He respectfully bowed his head in her direction to show that he was ready to answer her next question. Helen debated whether or not to ask this question; however, she considered that the change in the incident with Cabal had been directly altered due to John's lack of presence. "What happened in Normandy?"

James cocked an eyebrow at her question. That was something he could not fully tell her about. '_Perhaps I should skim certain facts dealing with those circumstances._' He shrugged his shoulders and began his recollection. "We tried to infiltrate Normandy when we received news about the weather grid that was stolen. However, it seemed the Nazi's were already instructed to keep an eye out for suspicious characters such as ourselves. I was captured during one of the shootouts and tortured but escaped before any permanent damage could be done. Afterwards, we found the weather grid as well as the fire elemental that they were trying to control and managed to force it into the earth's core before it destroyed France." He purposefully rolled his eyes before continuing. "I am starting to believe that saving that country was one of the worst decisions we ever made." He raised his hand when she opened her mouth to comment about how his unusual hatred towards that country was indescribably childish. "But, I digress. After we saved…France…from a fate worse than death, we found that the American soldiers that had helped Nigel were under extreme attack. They were outgunned and outmanned, yet somehow most of them managed to survive. The general that tortured me…General Kobra, I believe his name was, was found dead a few meters along the road from the bunker that stored the weather grid. His remaining crew was also dead when we found the tank."

James, satisfied with his answer, kept his gaze on Helen. If he broke eye contact, he knew she would be suspicious and the last thing he needed was to reveal certain facts to her that her other self was not even aware of. It was true that James had been captured and tortured by General Kobra, but the fact that he had never told Helen was that John had also been there. When he was dragged into the underground bunker, it was none other than John Druitt – seated so calmly in one of the metal chairs, fully in Nazi uniform – waiting for him. He had that sardonic boyish grin on his face as his light eyes practically glowed like a predator in the dim atmosphere. The general that had held him saluted to John with respect and Watson was speechless. For an hour Kobra had tortured him with standard electrical shocks and a few beatings, but James would not give out. John had scoffed at Kobra, stated that his primitive form of coercion would not affect Watson. With a flick of a finger from Druitt, the general scuttled to the corner like a chastised school boy as John lowered himself to squat right in front of Watson.

The two had exchanged words and James, irritated by the calm and composed aura surrounding Druitt, had bitterly spat out to the collective audience that the _Nazi_ before them was nothing more than a traitor who hounded for people's blood at night. He remembered how Druitt had thrown his head back and laughed a deep, rumbling, _mocking_ laugh. Even to this day, he could still remember Druitt's cruel metallic words echoing in that bunker.

"_Oh that they do know, my dear James. In fact, all of the men standing within this room as well as the soldiers sent to this country are intimately familiar of how I hound for blood at night. Can you not see the fear in their eyes, old boy?"_

And that was when Watson had taken a good long look at the surrounding soldiers. Truly looked at their faces. And what he saw was not fear, as Druitt had carelessly chuckled out, no. What he saw was blatant terror aimed towards the kneeling gentleman. Even Kobra, with his eyes hidden behind dark shades, was tense in posture. John Druitt had instilled ungodly fear into the hearts and minds of these soldiers. James had swallowed deeply then, suddenly understanding the precariousness of the situation he was in. An entire army was practically trembling beneath Druitt's boots and now he was chained against a chair at the receiving end of the man he had once called friend's insanity. With a wink, Druitt stood up and began to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt. He turned to look at the collective audience and clapped his hands once. He had spoken to them, explaining how knowing the weaknesses of an enemy were far better than generalized forms of torture. And with that point in mind, he slowly exposed Watson's machinery – taking pleasure in flicking each button of his dress shirt open – and proceeded to elicit the most torturous screams from the helplessly chained man.

Watson mentally shuddered at the memory, his chest never failing to tighten and itch when he recalled the piercing sensation that enflamed his entire body, like knives stabbing him in several directions, when Druitt had turned off his machine. He had felt helpless and through the haze of pain, he could see that most of the soldiers had turned to stare at the wall rather than him. They had either felt enough sympathy towards the position he was in or perhaps his screams had enticed them to remember their own torturous hours with the psychopath in the center of the room. By the end of the 20 minute 'warm-up', as Druitt had called it, only Kobra had remained facing Watson. However, his head was bowed and his glare was pointed at the ground.

Afterwards, Druitt had dismissed the men, stating that they had no sense of open-mindedness to appreciate the raw power of his art. None had complained and all were eager to leave. In that moment, James Watson was ready to die. He had no hope of escaping and the ire of the sinister male in the room was almost palpable. Watson had closed his eyes and prepared his mind for the blackness. However, all he felt was the loosening of the chains and Druitt's elegant laughter. The next few moments were a blur, the two had fought but it was obvious that Druitt was toying with him. John could have easily overpowered him, easily killed him with no effort – James, after all, had never trained himself in fighting – but to James, it seemed as if his purpose was not too end his life; rather, it was too raise his anger.

Watson recalled how he had slammed John against the wall, traded bitter words with him. For once in his life, he yelled and shouted like a petulant child. All his anger, his failures, his raw unadulterated regrets and anger were exposed. After his physical and verbal tirade, John had only looked at him with an arched brow and asked if he felt satisfied. James, shocked at his actions could only nod. With efficient movements, John quickly juxtaposed their positions and James found himself chained against the chair once more. However, John dangled the keys in front of his eyes stating that he intended for James to escape on one condition.

"_Promise me, old boy. Promise me that you will keep an eye upon Helen. She needs the protection and I find that I no longer hold the right to physically stand by her side to offer my valor and chivalry_."

James was shocked. He had not expected this request to be made to him. Shock instantly morphed into confusion. Even now, he did not fully understand why Druitt would make such a request. There was nothing that could have stopped him from physically approaching Helen on his own accordance. After John had handed him the keys, he turned his head towards the door, angled as if he were listening to some sort of movement. John smirked, offering him a short glance before stating that they were going to have company soon. And it was true. Kobra had returned and again saluted to John; however, afterwards he drew his gun and fired three shots. Each bullet found its mark into John's gut. James, eyes wide with shock, watched as John stumbled to his knees and fall face forward into the ground, blood pooling onto the gray cement.

Moments later, Kobra had revealed that they knew Druitt had killed the real Adolf Hitler and what his true intentions were. His removal was top priority. Watson could tell that Kobra was satisfied at his actions, as if physically killing Druitt would bury the fear and the humiliation of his own torture at the hands of Jack the Ripper. The general left afterwards, leaving James with a corpse. Quickly, James unlocked his chains and tentatively stepped around the body. His heart urged him to say good-bye but his mind calculated the time he had to leave before Kobra returned with more men to "escort" him to another room for torture. With a glance of respect, he snuck out the room and tried to find his way back towards Helen, knowing that he would never reveal the events between himself and John. He knew the news of Druitt's death would devastate her, despite her assurances that his lack of presence did not affect her in any way or form.

"So we still succeeded in Normandy…," Helen mumbled, not noticing the faraway look that her former lover had upon his face. Watson shook his head, mind partially returning to the present time. He cherished and hated that memory, it was a constant reminder of what John was able to provoke within him. After returning to London and the Sanctuary, Watson had delved directly into his scotch cabinet. His heart, for once in many years, felt heavy at the loss. That night, he had grieved. Years later, when he was able to return to the memories of Normandy, to the memories of John Druitt, he finally understood the significance of John's presence in his life. James Watson, the greatest detective mind of the world, the most emotionally impaired human being in the universe – was brought down to his knees by a single man. John Druitt that night, had forced Watson to scream in agony – to come to terms with his emotions rather than bury them behind the intellectual façade he projected. Montague John Druitt made James Watson _feel_; and he praised and cursed Druitt for that fact.

"I'm not quite sure we could call it a success, Helen…many lives were lost that day…," James tilted his meticulous head and looked at her with intense scrutiny. His mind was now fully with her, once again locking away the memories of Normandy and Druitt. Helen and he had ended their relationship only a few weeks before the incident at Normandy, and after expelling all the hurt the separation caused with his few moments with John, James had felt such utter relief. He had been glad that he could be human for once and in some form his mind had found a way to grieve the loss of a friend – not a monster – but a friend.

"And many more saved due to the sacrifices," Helen reiterated, although her voice held no conviction. But James merely nodded, no longer having the energy to argue any point with Helen tonight.

"Perhaps…now, I believe it is my turn to ask a question." Watson did not bother to look at her nod of approval, his mind never once losing track of whose turn it was. "Since it seems the final events of Normandy are similar in both our timelines, wasting a question on such would be pointless. What happened to Worth in your timeline?"

Helen swiftly reached up to rub her temple as the crux of the situation was finally reached. She did not know where to begin considering the long history they had with Adam. "As you may recall, the five of us began to chase after Adam when the Prime Minister's representative ca-"

"The three of us. Well – more like three and a half," James interrupted whimsically.

"I'm sorry?"

"The Prime Minister approached the three of us: Nigel, you, and I, at your London home. I included the half simply because you managed to convince Nikola to join our hunt of Worth after getting a written contract stating that his research would be funded as long as they followed the governmental guidelines and codes."

She was afraid to ask, yet she screwed up the courage to ask it, "And John?"

James offered a noncommittal shrug, "They were unable to track him…so I can only assume that the five of us worked together in your timeline in order to catch Worth." A nod of confirmation was given. "Well that certainly would have made traveling far more convenient," he chuckled derisively as he recalled the weeks it took for them to travel to one of Worth's possible destinations, "catching him would have certainly been far easier."

"Be that as it may, the five of us did manage to track him down and I shot him."

"You did in my time as well Helen."

"Similar so far…given a few deviances here and there. However, he managed to survive the shot and due to certain…actions of one of our former colleagues, he managed to survive and was found by rogue travelers in Hollow Earth."

"Our Worth survived as well, as you can see given the current situation. Apparently the shot you fired never killed him, merely bruised him within an inch of his life." James wanted to ask who had helped Worth but would not be discourteous enough to ask whilst she was explaining her timeline.

'_So whether or not John had let him escape, Worth would have survived the shot either way._' She mused a bit before continuing her story, finding it easier with James corroborating certain facts from his timeline that showed discrepancies in hers. "Of course, given that Worth was exposed to the technology of Hollow Earth, he became obsessed with the desire to return to the past and save his daughter's life with a serum he found while down there."

"Yes, in our timeline he also achieved the same goal, attacking you actually and exposing you to radiation poisoning that could only be cured by finding a way down to Hollow Earth, which we managed after some very tedious days."

"I was exposed to the poisoning as well but in my timeline we saved the life of Kanaan and after that endeavor Worth tried to steal the anti-matter device. He did not manage to fully escape with it. It was returned. Unfortunately…with previously unmentioned colleague's name, he took time notes and managed to remake the anti-matter device and destroying Praxis in the process…"

"Well our timeline has very similar events. However, Worth managed to capture the anti-matter device. After he escorted your team through the tunnels of Hollow Earth, he led you to an encampment of his…friends. Luckily, a group of soldiers from Praxis found you all before those cannibalistic monsters could help themselves to a rather filling snack. Of course, I don't know the full details of your skirmishes down in Hollow Earth. I was only able to ascertain portions of the story through you – well my timeline Helen. From what I can remember you were all sentenced to death, brought back to life, saved the world – yet again – and apparently deceived by Ranna's second-in-command. You tried to retrieve the anti-matter device, unfortunately Worth managed to escape with the weapon. And the rest, as they say, is history." James offered a childish grin when Helen groaned at the extremely horrible and ill-timed pun.

"So, since your Helen is obviously not here, Adam still succeeded with his time dilation experiments and I was still forced to go back in time," she stated with a confident air. "At least we managed that much despite the changes in history."

"Yes, we did not damage the most important factors of history in the least. Or I hope we did not." James tried hard to force his stomach to stop the incessant fluttering when she said 'your Helen'. '_If only she was…_,' he thought bitterly.

"So Worth is dead and everything is as it should be."

"Well, I'm not quite sure if 'everything is at it should be'," began James, "there has obviously been many changes to the timeline, one being that I am very much alive when I should very well be dead. Obviously, your time in the past has affected certain minute details. We are currently living in the quintessential example of a butterfly effect, Helen. Who knows what other major factors in history that were changed because of a slight whisper of a note presented in the past…the possibilities are quite literally infinite!"

Magnus raised a hand, palm forward to emphasize her need for him to settle down. "And we will deal with those changes when we are faced with them, James. Sitting here and talking about the obvious shifts in the timeline will do neither of us any good."

Bristling at the comment he continued, in vain, to verbally present her the ramifications of what they had failed to prevent. "Helen, you must see the intensity of this shift. The woman who you were in this timeline is not the same woman you were when you decided to live in solitude 113 years ago. My forte is not in the complications of quantum physics, but even I can see that we have inadvertently affected the past and if that is true and your past self shifted in decisions for the future due to the altered events of her life, than the decisions that your other self makes when she faces Worth in the past may not necessarily be the decisions you made when you dabbled in history. In which event, this future may not even exist at all when the other Helen finishes her own mission!"

Magnus sighed, knowing the facts that James spouted were indeed quite true. "I understand James, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that I can do now about it. All I can do is continuing working with the Sanctuary and saving the lives of the here and now."

Watson, a bit ashamed at his rant bowed his head in surrender. "You're right. I am sorry, Helen. At times, the impulses of my mind control my mouth prior to me filtering the words."

"I know James," the smile she offered was warm and comforting, "I wouldn't have you any other way."

With an arched brow and a delighted smile he replied in the savviest voice he could muster, "I'm glad to hear that. We will be working together once again and so a cordial relationship is a necessity."

Throwing her head back and laughing at his antics, Helen felt relaxed. When Watson joined in her laughter they shared a companionable silence. She absentmindedly scratched her nail along the smooth surface of her desk before speaking the questions that niggled the back of her thoughts, "have I really changed that much?"

James' back locked at the question. Although the question in itself was vague he knew the context in which she wanted her answer in. '_It's not "have I really changed that much", is it Helen? It's "am I that different from the woman you've spent the last 113 years with?" _' Struggling with the correct form to address the question, he conceded and decided to "wing it". "You…you seem more guarded Helen. My Helen was more open and comfortable with showing her emotions with close friends and family. And you…it's as if you've closed off a part of yourself to those whom you've known for years. Perhaps there have been hardships in your life that my Helen may not have been exposed to."

"Perhaps…," her eyes misted over as memories of Ashley and Gregory Magnus floated to the forefronts of her thoughts. Two people that she loved dearly were forever gone. Her heart ached at the loss, the scar of having to bury a child without ever having seen a final glimpse of a body had never fully healed, merely throbbed in pain on occasion.

Sensing that she needed a distraction, Watson cleared his throat to gain her attentions. "Well, now that we have spoken about certain discrepancies, I believe I should get to the point of this call in the first place."

"Ah! Of course, James," snapped out of her musings, she gave her undivided attentions to the man before her.

"Now, your letter stated that we should expect changes…care to enlighten me?" Closing her eyes in consternation, she began to explain the incident with Greg Addison as well as her plans for what the Sanctuary should become.

"Ah…so you want to revert the Sanctuary back to what your father had envisioned it to be?"

"Yes. I …I feel as if I owe him that much. Father always did see certain paths much clearer than I did. His decisions in life have obviously proven that considering his discovery and work with the Praxis government as well as his intuitive nature that allowed us to save Hollow Earth. He must have seen this as well."

"Well, he would be very proud of your decision and heart-warmed at the consideration you took towards his nature and vision when you made your decision."

Magnus could not help but beam with pride at the comment that her father would have been proud of her decision. "Thank you, James."

He waved off her thanks. "Nothing to thank, my dear. Simple truth. You do understand that the venture you are undertaking will be extremely difficult."

"I know James. But I am more than convinced that this is the only path that we can take. Our work has already been exposed and the governments are going to start approving and enforcing experimentation on abnormals. I refuse to allow that to happen! This is the only option we have left in order to protect everything we have worked decades for."

"Well, if this is your desire Helen, you know that you will have my full support." The two shared a smile of understanding, glad that despite all the chaos of reality, their friendship was still intact.

"You have never once abandoned me James, not even in my timeline. I cherish the friendship that we have and the support you have selflessly given me," her sincerity was obvious and the fluttering in his stomach flared once more.

"And I will never cease to give it," if she were physically in front of him, Watson would have reached over and clasped her hands. As that was not an option, thus he opted for a serene smile. "But there is another matter that I wish to discuss with you."

"And what matter would that be?"

"Now please understand that I tried to the best of my abilities to limit her focus on the mission alone; however, she is independent and has a mind purely of her own. Despite my warnings and suggestions to contact you first, she simply packed her belongings and jumped onto one of your private jets…," James rambled on, not even seeing the confusion that was plastered on Helen's face. Before she could interrupt he continued. "From what I heard she has been to Morocco and parts of Berlin and finally ended in Japan…"

"Wait James. Who are we talking about?"

"Who else would be foolhardy enough to disregard your direct orders and go off on a private goose chase around the world Helen?" A dark brow lifted sardonically. "Ashley. You sent her here before going after Worth. You wanted her to help the London Sanctuary prepare for new residents. After – "

"Ashley! She's alive!" Helen stood to her full towering height, palms slamming down onto the mahogany table top as her heart clenched at the impossible.

'_Oh dear God…Ashley never lived in her timeline!_' James thought frantically. Instantly the puzzles to her personality fell into place. '_She had to bury her own daughter. She had to watch her child die in front of her. No wonder she is so guarded with her emotions. She has felt the pain that a parent should never have to endure. Oh dear God…_'

"Yes. She is alive Helen…"

"Where is she?" she did not mean for her voice to be as raised as it was. But Helen could not help it. '_She's alive! My little girl as alive! Oh heavens, Ashley…I've missed you so much…_'

"As I stated before she is in Japan…," James trailed off, noticing that this time the tears which had not been shed earlier, were now freely flowing down Helen's cheeks.

"She's alive…I can't…It's not…alive…," one of her hands curled into a loose fist and pressed against her plush lips.

Knowing that this was the most inopportune moment to ask, Watson gathered his courage and probed – his curiosity flaring once more. "How did she…?" Despite his intentions, he could not fully ask the questions or mention the word _die_. Not with the stoic Helen Magnus crumbling down in front of his eyes.

"The Cabal…we couldn't save her…"

At the mention of the Cabal and his recollection of her earlier words of genetic manipulations all the pieces finally fit. "They used her…her DNA would have been perfect! Two abnormal parents. Genetically preset to have both the abilities of her parents inherently…"

"Yes I know that!" she snapped irritably. Not wanting to recollect the anger on Ashley's face highlighted in orange nearly golden eyes. Nor did she want to recall the look of anguish on her daughter's face as she fought against the primal instincts before teleporting off into her death.

Knowing that he was now in very sensitive land, Watson proceeded slowly. A woman's scorn was one thing, a mother's wrath another. "I'm sorry Helen," she refrained from rolled her eyes at the comment knowing full well there was a lack of sincerity and more of a formality in his apology, "but she is in Japan. She left near noon. When I tried to contact you about her decision, my transmissions were being blocked. Most likely due to the Addison situation you had today. According to her, she plans on returning to Old City in four days."

"Four days? What is she doing in Japan? And for that matter Morocco and Berlin?"

"I do not have the answers to those questions, my dear. Those will be some very interesting facts that you will have to find through your daughter when she returns."

"Indeed. Do you know…," her hesitation was clear, "do you know how she survived?"

"As I do not know the circumstances of her death, I could not tell you how she managed to live, dear Helen. That would be a topic you would have to ask her yourself."

"Of course, you are right. Thank you for telling me James." It was apparent that Helen's thoughts were no longer with him and Watson conceded to her silent request.

"Well if that is all, then I shall bid you goodnight, my dear. It looks as if you need the rest."

"Hm…oh…yes. Goodnight to you as well James." Without a second thought she disconnected the transmission and sat back down in her chair.

'_I didn't lose her in this timeline. Ashley's alive…_'

**[END FLASHBACK]**

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><p>The steady throb at her temple had grown to a pulsing beat. And now here she was, four days later. The urge to drink had become an incessant need during the last few days. After the meeting with the Leaders the following night, it was obvious that her decision was not being well received. The bickering had grown to astounding proportions that would have left an estranged couple seem like a loving and endearing pair. After some negotiations and a bit of yelling on her end, they had settled down and moved forward with plans and ideas to keep the Sanctuary running. Although there had been passive aggression between herself and her leaders, the final consensus was passable for most, if not all, of the heads.<p>

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Helen checked her watch once again. Her heart was beating erratically and a cold sweat had settled upon her soft skin. She was nervous at seeing Ashley again. To be able to hold her little girl again was a miracle. Letting out another breath, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Maybe if she focused on the reports that Will had given her earlier that morning time would go by faster.

Frustrated, she threw her hands in the air and disappeared into the confines of her office once more. Ashley would be back soon enough.

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><p><strong>AN**: So what do you guys think of the timeline shift? Good? Bad? Not really digging it? Doesn't make sense? Should really just stop this insanity before I implode? Comments, flames, suggestions, anything – is all welcome!

How did I do with Watson? I wanted to show some of his own personal demons that could explain why they portray him as he is. Did I do well? I love the complication of who Watson is!

Read and Review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sanctuary. Don't even own myself – parents have claimed that – Sigh. Story of my life.

**A/N:** Wow this chapter has taken a while to make. Been very, very, very busy. However, I must say I love this chapter simply because it will have ASHLEY in it! Yes folks, that's right! Ashley! Yessss!

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><p>"Heathrow Ground. Ramses. Approaching West Apron. Request permission to land. Over."<p>

"Acknowledged Ramses. Heathrow Ground. Affirmative. Cleared to land West Apron. Over and out."

A sleek white jet approached the runway with declining speed. The length of the body barely skidded as tires met tarmac. The stream-lined form of the Gulfstream G650 slowly approached a massive hangar before halting within the metal establishment. Satisfied the blonde removed the headset she wore and gently hung it on a peg above the cockpit overhead. Hands moved quickly to cut the power to the engines, flicking switch after switch off in the process. Satisfied, she heard the gentle purr of the aerodynamic beast settle down before unclasping her seatbelt and standing. After the seven hour flight between Japan and Old City, she was more than happy and ready to stretch. Groaning in satisfaction at the ability to finally move around, Ashley Magnus stretched and rotated her body to remove the kinks from her barely used muscles.

She always hated long flights, but the opportunity to fly one of her mother's executive jets, especially the Ramses, was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Satisfied at her flight abilities she turned her light head towards the seated pilot next to her.

"So…how was I?" she questioned exuberantly. Pale blue eyes lit up dramatically as Ashley regarded the aged veteran captain as he removed his own headset and dutifully hung it on the remaining peg.

"Not bad. Smoothest landing so far. Not quite the skill your mother has, but the lack of skidding shows that you've improved greatly, kid," responded the flight captain.

"Really Mike? That's it? "Not bad"…," Ashley's fingers moved to quote the last two words, a bit miffed that her excellent piloting skills were being under appreciated at the moment. When Mike offered her a shrug in return, she knew that attaining any detailed explanations as to why she only received a _Not Bad_ would only give her a headache. The veteran pilot was stubborn and Ashley Magnus knew that if she butted heads with him, they would be at it all day long. And quite frankly, she did not have the time to try and convince and bully the old dog today. Maybe some other time. "Whatever…," she mumbled. She never could reign in her temper and a string of profanities left her mouth as she exited the cockpit and moved towards the luxurious seating section.

Mike, for his part, only barked out in laughter as he heard the young Magnus begin cursing and swearing like a seasoned sailor. "Better watch that mouth of yours, little lady. Mamma shoulda smacked you a good one for using that kinda language 'round here." He twisted his head off to the side to catch her sticking her tongue out at him before picking up her all black Icon Squad II backpack from the seating area. With a shake of his head, he hollered out before she could leap off the descending stairs, "tell your mamma I said hi!"

"Sure thing!" she hollered back before bounding down the stairs and into the hangar. She was greeted by a few crewmen who began the routine check-up over the plane. She waved at them in return, really eager to get home after her little expedition around the world. She visibly winced at the wrath she would probably incur with her mom, most likely Uncle James had already told her about her little departure to Morocco, Berlin, and Japan. And if she knew her mother's crew as well as she did, Mike had probably relayed every single stop to Watson in the most discrete manner possible. Sighing, she mentally began to form her apology and timing the perfect opportunity to show her puppy dog eyes.

'_There's always a 50/50 shot that she'll fall for it…_'she thought pensively. Despite the fact that she was well over her teenage years, Ashley always dreaded rows with her mother. They never lasted long, usually a few hours, and then both would allow their respective frustrations to simmer and cool down before approaching one another on much friendlier terms. Ashley could never remember a time in which she and her mother had never settled their differences. Her mother had a wonderful grasp of understanding situations and with her years of experience, she was far more patient than Ashley Magnus could ever dream of. While she remained the epitome of calm and collectedness, her daughter was the quintessence of rambunctious energy that could not be easily contained.

With a dash of exuberance in her step, Ashley found her way through towards the parking garage near the West Apron hangar. She found several cars neatly parked in diagonal rows. She ignored each and every waxed surface and gleaming tires that she crossed paths with and made her way to the other end of the private garage. Sapphire eyes lit up at the sight of a perfectly black and silver trimmed custom designed 2008 Suzuki Hayabusa GSX1300R.

"Oh baby, did you miss me?" she practically cooed at the dark combination of metal and rubber. Gloved hands reached out to glide over the smooth surface of the motorcycle. Out of all the motorcycles that she had received over the years this was her second favorite. The fastest bike in her collection by far, but still only her second favorite. She remembered the day she had received this bike. Her 21st birthday – 2 years ago to be precise – she had practically begged her mom to buy her the Hayabusa. She recalled how the elder Magnus had scoffed at such a frivolous request.

Disappointed, Ashley had nearly pouted the entire month prior to her birthday, only pride refraining her from doing so. She refused to show her mother that childish antic knowing that she would soon be 21 and would be regarded as a petulant little girl if she were to drop to such low forms of guilt tripping. And thus, she had sucked it up and feigned absolute indifference to her mother's comment about frivolous desires. When the faithful day had arrived, she had expected the usual routine of breakfast with the family consisting of her mother, the Big Guy, Henry, and Will, followed by a stroll out lunch with her mother and finally dinner once again with the family plus Uncle James and Uncle Declan. However, the morning after she had come down the stairs, her mother had handed her a case file and stated that they were backed up on retrievals. She had awoken later than everyone else within the house and had the last job on the list – the job no one wanted to take: Sewer stake-out.

Her frustrations had grown to nearly unbearable levels when her mother had just walked away without even uttering a 'Happy Birthday Ashley!' But she did not comment, hiding the hurt on her face and went off to prepare for the stake-out. After fuming and dressing at the same time in the privacy of her bedroom, Ashley had stomped down towards the armory and packed all the necessary equipment before trudging off to the garage. She had wanted to punch every single vase on the way, but that would have been far too obvious. Entering the garage, she noticed that every single car and motorcycle that her mother and she had ever purchased was gone. The entire garage completely devoid of anything. Well not completely.

In the middle of the garage stood a tarp covered _thing_. A little suspicious, she had cautiously made her way towards the object and lifted the dusty black tarp. Underneath the heavy item was a gleaming black and silver Suzuki Hayabua GSX1300R. Not just any Suzuki Hayabusa, the 2008 version of the Hayabusa, literally one of the fastest models out of all the years that were released for this bike. Ashley recalled how she had dropped her bags and practically ran her hands over the brand new motorcycle. Instantly, she regretted her emotions towards her mom, there should have never been any doubt that her mom would forget her birthday. And the simple fact that not only did she get the bike, but she bought the _perfect_ year and model; her mother was no doubt truly amazing!

When she returned to the house, she found all of her family gathered near the staircase, holding the cheekiest grins they could muster. They seemed amused at her earlier silent rants across the house, believing that they had all forgotten her birthday. She hugged her mother, her exuberant energy at the prospect of riding her new treasure around town uncontainable. After a brief, due to her impatience to test out the new beast, breakfast – Ashley had grabbed the keys and tore out of the house like a bat out of hell.

Grinning at the fond memory, the young blonde straddled the motorcycle and turned the engine on. The gentle purring of the metal beast beneath her fingertips caused a tremor of excitement to reverberate through her entire body. It felt good to be back on solid ground and driving her vehicles. Traveling was wonderful in itself, but there was always something to be said for home. Reaching into her squad pack, she removed the matching silver and black full-face helmet. '_Bad enough I'm going to get a verbal tirade for moving around the world without prior notice, the last thing I need is to give mom more fuel for the fire by not protecting my head_.'

With practiced patience, her fingers moved to ensure that the helmet was secure before flipping the visor down. The sun had set hours ago and would not affect her vision. However, she hated getting dry eyes during a ride and goggles were disgustingly tacky. Kicking the stand, Ashley leaned forward and veered the motorcycle towards the exit. With a twist and roar, she barreled past rows of cars with the sleek elegance of a jungle cat.

* * *

><p>A shift in the air rustled the tranquility of the trees followed by a flash of purplish light. Two bodies silhouetted against the receding horizon, a glare of red and orange flashing across the landscape making the grass appear as if they were flames swaying in the breeze. Eloisa's grip tightened against the arm in which hers were wrapped around. The sharp edge of nails digging into expensive cloth as her equilibrium was thrown off balance. Never had she experienced such a way of transportation and could feel the remnants of the small breakfast she had consumed earlier rising along the lines of her esophagus. Unable to quell the acidic concoction, she turned away from the tall male beside her and met with tall blades of grass.<p>

With a quirk of a brow, Druitt watched with a perfected look of boredom as retching sounds began to escape the young woman. Realizing that she did nothing about her long strands of hair, he capitulated to playing the chivalrous role and moved to gather the mud encrusted silken threads. Satisfied that no bile had mixed with her already sullied tendrils, he waited patiently until the liquid gargle ebbed into dry heaves. With efficient movements, he twisted and coiled the silken strands of vibrant red and allowed the collected bun to settle on the nape of her neck before moving away.

"Forgive me Ms. Fiammetta, I should have warned you about the teleportation. At times I forget that people are unused to such forms of transportation and should have better prepared you for such an event. Please accept my sincerest of apologies."

Breathing heavily, Eloisa swiped the back of her hand along her mouth, allowing her stomach to settle once more before taking a long, relaxing breath. Satisfied that she would not coat her host in a layer of her own stomach contents she turned and considered his words. "There's nothing to forgive, I should've been aware that you would teleport us to your location."

'_She knows that I am able to teleport…what else does this young woman know…_' he thought vaguely, eyes narrowing in consideration of possible decisions he could follow through with concerning this young woman. '_Her vast stores of knowledge regarding my history are a bit disconcerting. Hm…I will deal with that later._' In regards to her words, Druitt merely nodded his head once and regally proffered his arm to her.

Still unsteady upon her feet, she appreciated the strength of his arm as she rose to her full height, which she noted was still considerably lower than his own resounding 6'4. Leaning more upon him than she was comfortable with, Eloisa lifted her eyes to the approaching gate and gasped in awe at the property that was before her. Living on the minimum of her odd jobs within the States, she was used to moving from one small roach infested apartment to another. Never, could she contemplate being inside a home that was obviously meant for not only luxury but privacy as well.

Before her stood an incredible building of what looked to be three stories high. She could not label the property as ostentatious due to its rather simplistic farmhouse design with its stone walls. She cast a sideways glance at the dark and imposing male figure beside her and back towards the house they were approaching.

'_This house looks homey and welcoming…and yet he is far from the image of a laboring father who returns home and cuddles with his children…_' The property simply did not fit his acquired image at all.

Amused at her pathetic tries of hiding her shock and confusion, Druitt spoke in gentle tones. "This is an excellent example of a stone built farmhouse with origins dating back to the 18th century. It was originally three separate properties, but given my propensity for solitude, I purchased the surrounding two properties rather than be forced to be amiable to _questionable_ neighbors." A dark chuckle escaped past thin lips at the dry joke he delivered.

Still infused with awe, she listened carefully to his dialogue although the joke her host presented was lost within the mixture of shock, as her eyes swept around the surrounding area noticing that the only sight available was the excellent panoramic views of open plains and mountains. There were no other homes that she could see.

"And where exactly are we, Mr. Druitt?"

"We are currently in the heart of the Pyrnes-Orientales department of the Languedoc-Roussillon area of southern France. Occupying a very private and rural location with far-reaching panoramic views, as you can see," he swept his free arm out to emphasize the lack of human interference, "this is an excellent home that sits right on the border with Spain."

"It's quite beautiful…," she whispered reverently.

"Indeed. The view is quite magnificent," he concurred. When they approached the black, intricately weaved gate, John opened the thin barrier and motioned for Eloisa to enter. Following after her, he closed the gate, not bothering to lock it, and once again hooked her arm in his. Now within the property, Eloisa could see the courtyard was lined with plants and gravel which led to a garage – most likely added only a few years before. She appreciated the sight of simplistic lines and healthy infusion of plants and nature. The vines that curled along the edges of the main house as well as the pathway leading to the backhouse were very enticing to the eye.

"Here we are," John paused before the massive double wooden doors and opened the entryway. Eloisa mentally noted that the front door was unlocked as well.

'_Considering his ability to kill and teleport anywhere, the need to lock doors becomes very redundant._' Crossing the threshold, Eloisa's eyes cast over the stone walls and the wooden furniture that lined the hallway. She kept her sights open, head swiveling left and right in successive motions. Druitt, amused by this methodic search of hers, remained quiet.

'_At first you were speechless, but now you are searching out any places that you may hide. Old habits easily overcome curiosity and pleasantry. What a shame, my little one. Can you ever enjoy new sights without feeling the oppressive jaws of your nurtured habits enclosing around you?_' Quirking a brow, Druitt had to mentally laugh at the image of what her life would have consisted of. This small, frail slip of a girl cowering in a corner in an attempt to stave off a few hours of pain, only to find that avoiding such events would only lead to an extended session of torture. He released her hand and took half a step back. "May I take your sweater, Ms. Fiammetta?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he noticed the way she instantly cringed and wrapped her slender arms around her waist, tightening the brown sweater around her body like a shield.

"N-no," she whispered with such vehemence for a moment he was struck speechless at her audacity. Druitt merely arched a brow at her words. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the look of momentary anger ghosting over his face before she continued, stumbling over her words in her pace. "I-I mean, n-no thank you, sir."

Hands curled like talons into the soft fibers of the sweater, praying to any and all gods out there that he would not insist on relieving her of the item. Druitt stared into her eyes, enjoying the flush upon her skin as she broke the contact to place her gaze upon the floor. '_You are quite amusing, my little one_.'

"Of course, Ms. Fiammetta," he purred in that luxuriously deep baritone as he stepped lightly into the hallway, purposely bypassing her as if she were nonexistent. The action caused a stab of pain in the young woman's stomach. She had spent years avoiding the attentions of people and was quite successful at it. However, with this man, the lack of his attention made her nervous and even depressed. Disregarding her body's trained reaction to find a closet to sidle into, she followed the taller gentleman, hoping that he would acknowledge her presence.

Pleased at her predictable reactions to his actions, Druitt turned the corner sharply and entered the living room. The room was vast. The high ceiling offering a view of the wooden railings to both the second and third floors as the wall to wall windows, separated by wooden panels, encompassed the wall directly across the railings and offered a perfect view of the open fields and mountains. The living room itself was lined with thick carpets over wooden paneled floors. A large fireplace took the space of one of the three remaining walls as large sumptuous couches and armchairs littered the center of the room with tasteful little coffee table and side tables. Reaching for the lapels of his coat; John shed the heavy layer followed by the dark blazer of his suit and tossed it into one of the armchairs before turning his attentions back to Eloisa. He reached for her purse and learning from her earlier actions about defying his requests, she quickly acquiesced to his manners and allowed him to place the purse onto one of the side tables near the couch.

"If you would like to take a moment to freshen yourself, there is a rest room in the hallway. Simply turn right after entering the hall and open the first door to your left."

"Thank you." She bowed her head and hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving out of the room and into the hallway.

Head cocked to the side, Druitt watched as the young lithe woman moved towards the exit. Now that he was free to watch her without distraction, he noticed the slight limp in her step. '_She did not fracture any bones during her run through the alley. And she showed no pain in the walk towards the house. Must be an old fracture that never healed properly…_,' he thought with little to no remorse, '…_poor lass. The years of systematic abuse is so painfully written in your actions and face_.' Druitt grinned sadistically, '_the thought of my time with you gives me such excitement. I will enjoy our play together_.'

Enjoying the sight of her retreating back, John had to commend the young woman for the lack of noise in her steps. Like a housecat, softly trotting within the hallways of an ancient house. A feat that was difficult to achieve when one wears heavy footwear such as boots. '_You strain to be unheard. Very canny of you, my dear. Will you stab me in my sleep when our time together turns sour on your end?_'

When he could no longer catch her scent near the room, John reached for the purse and perused the contents.

'_Neat and tidy_,' he mused as he found a wallet, passport, and a cheap chap stick. '_You left nothing in here for others to be distracted by. Even in death, you want your murderer to not be hindered. Simply kill you and grab your wallet, nothing else to siphon through. How morbidly kind of you to be so efficient_.' He drew out the wallet and slid the driver's license from its sheath. The image on the plastic identification was eerily similar to the woman who had exited the room moments before. No smile. Skin pale. Eyes dead. Her name was printed in bold black letters as Eloisa Fiammetta, age 27, and a resident of Tacoma, Washington. '_Interesting, Italians are usually named after several descendents within the family and enjoy including their full name upon their identifications. You're lack of providing your extended name proves that you wish to have no connections to your past. I wonder why that is? Abusive household, perhaps_?'

Returning her personal affects back into their proper place, John closed the purse and placed it back onto the side table as if it were never disturbed. Long strides led him to the back of the room where he poured himself and his guest a snifter of brandy. He lifted a crystal snifter in each hand and made his way back towards the center of the living area before settling his tall form in one of the plush leather armchairs. With infinite care, John lifted the glass to his lips and sipped the liquid. The burning sensation flowed down his throat and calmed his mind like a cooling balm. Ruing, he closed his eyes and leaned his head backwards, letting the scents and sounds of his home filter through his hypersensitive senses.

* * *

><p>Eloisa followed Druitt's directions to the letter, easily finding the bathroom in the hallway. Slipping inside, the door closed behind her with a click. She did not bother to turn on the light, just not yet. Most people feared the darkness, believing that it was a shelter for monsters to lurk within. But she had learned. Monsters did not need the darkness to attack. Oh, how she learned that lesson well. There the young red-head stood, back pressed against the wooden door, savoring the lack of light. The darkness had always been her friend, her protector. Each night she survived a round of brutal beatings and stinging slaps, they would lock her in the room and the darkness always brought peace – respite. It was the only moment in which she found comfort. In the darkness, no one would touch her.<p>

Breathing deeply, she flipped the switch and winced as the harsh light enlightened the room.

'_They always come in the light_,' she thought bitterly. The pain always began anew when their shadows could be traced upon the floor.

Respiratory rate increasing, Eloisa shuttered her eyes closed and urged her body to calm, mentally reminding herself that she was alone in the rest room and soon, soon she would find the peace she had always craved for. After a few moments, her thoughts and body relaxed enough for her to open those dead green eyes. Another moment and she found herself facing the bathroom mirror. The sight of her body made her whimper. Hair caked in mud, far too much for her to remove in just a sink alone. Her burnished red strands were also in tangles and clothes stained. She caught a glimpse of what looked to be vomit clinging to the edges of her sweater and realized that she had walked into Mr. Druitt's impeccably clean home looking like a fright of a mess.

Hands trembling, she turned on the water and tugged off those supple leather gloves. Gently, she pulled at the sleeves of her brown sweater, effectively ignoring the shallow cuts upon the exposed pale flesh. Cupping her slender fingers underneath the gushing faucet, she leaned over and splashed the frigid water onto her face. With controlled patience she ignored the slap of ice cold liquid and repeated the process until her teeth clattered and she could no longer see a trace of mud upon her features. She knew she was limited in her capability of 'freshening up', but it would be discourteous not to make an effort to appear hygienic.

Resigned to her fate, the water was shut off and the young woman toweled her face dry with an available green hand towel which hung from a ring attached to the wall. She sighed appreciatively at the feel of soft cotton fibers running along her face and soaking up the frigid droplets that had clung to her porcelain like skin. With slow, deliberate movements, she hung the towel back upon the ring and exited the small room, flicking the light off as she left. With barely a click to warn her host of her impending arrival, Eloisa softly treaded along the wooden floor to return to the living room. She was relieved that no noise emanated from her footsteps as she approached the massive space.

Upon entrance, green eyes shifted about swiftly. Mind cataloguing places in which she could squeeze her body into should the need arise. After the brief, yet thorough search, her emerald orbs finally settled upon the man seated in one of the armchairs. He looked to be asleep with his head tilted back, legs crossed fashionably, arms resting along the thick leather arms of the chair as one cradled a brandy snifter in its palms. The young woman could not help but appreciate the sight before her. She had little to no interest in the opposite gender; in fact she had little interest in her own gender for that matter. Yet, she was thoroughly intrigued and daresay even attached to this man before her. In a state of utter relaxation, as he was now, he exuded such an aura of controlled danger. Barely moving and still Eloisa could feel the unmitigated power that Montague John Druitt possessed. At a loss as to what her next actions should be considering the precarious situation she was in, Eloisa shifted in her position by the threshold. Even this action was startlingly quiet.

* * *

><p>A blank space before him. A void of infinite space and possibilities. A splash of deep crimson caused a gash to form across the scene and he watched with patient breath as the color swirled like pure blood sucked into a drain. Another color. But what to add? Vermillion. A vibrant and earthy stain to smear and mix with the blood. Like a medieval battlefield with grass and grime to soak up the crimson liquid. Brown, a tarnished color bordering on the shade of rust, mixed into the image within his thoughts, completing the colors of earth and blood irrevocably mixed in morbid supplication to the dangerous claws of Man.<p>

A new scent.

'_She's returned_…,' he noted off-handedly. With deliberate care, he drained the colors from his thoughts, returning the space of his genius back into the black void as his consciousness slipped into the forefront of his mind. He waited patiently, easily picking up the slight shifts in the young woman's movement with no disturbances in his own physical body to betray his sudden shift in awareness. Her nervous actions caused the waves of her scent to flower across the room, an amusing response for him to savor. '_What will you do my little one?_' When she made no physical action to make her presence known, Druitt mentally smirked, quite pleased at her submissive demeanor. '_You know better than to disturb my presence and are now awaiting for my reaction instead. Very good, my little one. This pleases me immensely._'

"Sit down." His voice, although soft in its tenor, resonated with such a command that it sliced through the silence like a whip.

Eloisa's body jolted in unabated fear as that dark, nearly sinister voice of his broke the silence. Red-head snapped up to see if Mr. Druitt had been looking at her but found him still situated in casual repose. It looked as if he had not moved from his earlier position and left her to gawk in wonder. She had not expected the older gentleman to become aware of her presence and the mere fact that he had easily perceived that she was in the room only moment after she had entered brought forth that panic and fear she had wallowed in within the alleyway. Nervousness caused her hand to tremble as she realized that her gloves, which she had not slipped back on earlier, could not seem to find its mark upon her hand.

"Please."

When Druitt spoke again, she raised her head to look at him, confused at the words, only to find that he was currently standing next to the couch, one hand supporting his weight on the back of the chair as the other lifted the glass of brandy to his lips. Shaken at his quick movement, Eloisa made haste in sliding on her gloves and securing them firmly before she approached the elegantly taller male. When she was close enough, she side-stepped his much larger frame, head bowed the entire time before sitting in one of the couches. She moaned in pleasure when the cushions conformed to her body, cradling her form in their warmth. A sound she had meant to stifle but could achieve to slightly muffle. Never had she luxuriated in such a wonderful sensation such as this.

John cocked his head to the side, observing her body through the entire exchange. He mentally marked the bruises upon her wrists, the scars barely noticeable signifying the lack of conviction in each slice attempted.

'_I am quite certain that there are several more scars adorning your body, my little one. Does pale flesh dappled in black and blue cover those brittle bones of yours_?' his thoughts hissed with succulent pleasure, '_what noise will they make when snapped? Will they make any noise at all? And what sounds can I draw from those luscious lips_?' Druitt practically vibrated with excitement at the infinite possibilities that a woman such as Eloisa Fiammetta presented.

As soon as she was seated, he himself re-established the relaxed posture he was in moments before. Large hands motioned to the glass of brandy upon the coffee table. "Drink, please. It will help you relax."

At the sight of the alcoholic beverage in front of her, Eloisa stiffened almost immediately, the sensation of warmth escaping her body as if she had been slapped. Druitt took notice and arched a brow imperceptibly.

"No thank you." Her words were sharp and quick, nearly slipping from her mouth in the form of a scream.

'_Hm, you equate imbibing liquor with a loss of control. Either your father or mother was a drunkard. Or perhaps your former abusers?_' he cocked his head to the side, contemplating how he would use this new found information. '_No. I shall refrain from worshipping Dionysus in your presence. That look of utter helplessness on your face makes me envious…from now on my little one I will be the only being in your thoughts. No longer will former abusive acquaintances cross your memories. You will learn how possessive I am with objects I wish to destroy._'

With deliberate care, he purposely deposited his glass upon the wooden table, allowing her to distinguish the fact that his glass harbored only half an inch less of liquid in comparison to her own. In a blink of an eye, her rigid body relaxed. "Thank you."

Her voice was a barely strained whisper.

'_That's right, my dear. I'm a benevolent sadist_.' Even now he could see the cogs of her mind working, the strands of her loyalty beginning to form and bond to his visage. '_Like a rabbit falling into the fox's burrow._' Nodding in acceptance, John resumed his former position. He watched the younger woman scrupulously; knowing that to engage her in any conversation whilst she was tense would prove disastrous. And so, he merely smiled congenially at her.

Disarmed at his rather charming personality, Eloisa calmed further. Her heart rate began thumping at a normal steady rhythm, although her nerves were still running rampant. When still he did not speak, she understood that Mr. Druitt was allowing her time to adjust to his presence within his home. Instantly, she warmed at the concept. Never had another human being ever given her thoughts consideration. Perhaps her proposition would not be refused by him.

Absolutely amused at her perfectly predictable facial expressions, Druitt was able to calculate the exact moment in which his little toy was finally amiable to conversation. Not one to dally with unnecessary questions, given his time was certainly precarious at the moment; he delved directly into the heart of the problem.

"So, Ms. Fiammetta, please tell me about you."

"Why do you care about my past? Surely you know what I want."

Druitt cocked his head to the side, noting the defensiveness in her voice. "As I have stated earlier in our meeting, Ms. Fiammetta, I do not possess the ability for clairvoyance. I do not, as you have blatantly stated, know what you want."

'_She is refraining from speaking about her past experiences. The switch between her anger and complacency is a coping mechanism she has built for protection. What other defenses have you created around your mind, my little one? You will learn that hiding behind those walls is useless against me, my dear._'

"If you wish to have my help, it would be far more convenient for you to encourage a positive relationship between us. Would it not?" He smirked as her hands clenched into twin fists upon her lap. Trapped. She knew that whatever plans she had concocted in her miserable little mind would be fruitless without his participation. No response escaped her lips and John sat, bemused as he noted the now prominent vein throbbing at her temple.

'_You want to answer in a bitter remark, don't you my dear? But training has taught you that there is no right answer to such a question. Any answer you give will result in a blow. Tut, tut, tut. Your former masters have much to learn. There are far worse methods of pain than just physical violence alone._'

"Shall we begin anew, Ms Fiammetta?" his voice, although pleasant in delivery, held an undercurrent of command and authority that Eloisa could not disobey. She nodded in response. "Please kindly use your words, Ms. Fiammetta. You have been given the ability to speak openly and it would do the world an injustice not to share your lovely voice."

Blushing at the compliment, Eloisa shook her head again and within a fraction of that moment realized that mistake. "I-I am sorry. Forigive me. I mean – yes, please let's just start over."

"Very good," John shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs and re-crossing those elegantly long limbs in the opposite manner, "please, do tell me about yourself."

Knowing better than to fight, she conceded to his request. "I was born in Agrigento, Italy. My family was very poor and my father was part of one of the many gangs that resided in our city. I was the youngest and the only girl out of the 4 children my parents had. Every morning was the same – harassment and threats and every night differed from no other. He would drink excessively with his friends and cause a ruckus in our town and then he would return home and demand to be treated like a king. Our lack of wealth prevented it and soon after he would beat my mother and threaten to kill one of us if she so much as screamed. And she never did, no matter how much harder he hit her. All to prevent him from taking his drunken anger out on one of us…"

Druitt refrained from speaking, allowing her to continue whenever her level of comfort encouraged her verbal display.

"Growing up in a place like that, my eldest brother ended up joining the gang too. And by then, no one was safe in the house…"

John planted an elbow upon the armchair, hand cradling his chin as he processed the beginnings of her rather brutal life. "And what actions did your brother take upon your mother and other siblings, my dear?"

Her eyes had glazed over at the memory. Her voice assuming a monotonous edge as her mind separated from her body in the tell-tale sign of coping. "The same things my father did. But he was more violent. All the anger that he had for my father he took out on me and my brothers. He wasn't allowed to touch mamma…"

At the last admission, Druitt noted the way her legs reflexively seemed to clench together. '_Hm, she refers to her brothers and father in third person. Almost clinical in association…yet refers to her mother as mamma. Close relationship_.'

"And what of your mamma, Eloisa?"

Head snapped up at the mention of her Christian name. '_He hasn't called me that at all in our entire exchange._'

"She died. What else could possibly happen when you're living a fucked up life like that? He beat her to death."

Sighing in only a slight showing of irritation, John eased backwards, still composed and relaxed. "That is not quite what I meant. Obviously, given the circumstances of her life, death was an inevitable escape from her troubles." The way she glared at him at the comment made a tingle run across his spine. "I am far more interested in the relationship you two had. Did she comfort you after your brother beat and molested you?"

Her beautiful green eyes widened in shock at the mention of molestation. "H-how did – he didn – no!"

"There is no point in denying a simple fact. At the mention of your brother's interests forced away from the interests of the woman who had given birth to him, you clenched your legs together. It is a natural reaction to show your physical response to a memory. In this case, the memory of your brother trying to touch you forced your physical body to react in the present. You tried to stop him, did you not Eloisa? Fighting him off with every bit of strength you could muster."

"Yes…"

"It was useless. He was older, larger, far stronger then a scrawny little girl such as yourself? Mhm?"

"Yes…"

"And how did you cope, Eloisa?"

"Mamma…she would take my hand in the afternoon, when my father and brothers were out with their gangs…," she was far away now, lost in the memories that she held dearest. The memories that she would actively reach for and expand on in her thoughts when reality became far too harsh to live within. Druitt remained tense in anxiousness, as if he were about to taste the sweetest wine in the world. "She would take me to the coast, and would sit with me on one of the rocks. Just…just cradling me, and we would watch the waves of the Mediterranean Sea. She would tell me to close my eyes and she would sing."

Slowly, eyelids shuttered over those cold sapphire eyes. '_So that is her most treasured memory._'

When only silence ensued after her declaration, John cracked a single eye open in expectance. He was met with a cold-hearted glare from his new social companion.

"You are free to continue when you please, Ms. Fiammetta." She cringed when he returned to the more formal presentation of her name.

"Why should I? You haven't given me anything in return!"

"I could give you many things in return. Money, jewelry, clothes. However, none of those little tokens would be appreciated by one as dull in tastes such as you."

Jaw clenched, she practically growled, "What does it matter about my past!"

'_Ah. You're irritation stems from the fact that you have shared your treasured memory with a stranger. And now you wish to lay blame upon me. I knew you would be an amusing little catch._'

"It matters to you simply because it matters to me. Understand, Ms. Fiammetta," he leaned forward, his eyes flashing dangerously, "that our conversation at this moment will determine how we spend our future time together."

"I didn't seek you out to spend my goddamned time with you!" she hissed, that brassy note of annoyance coloring her words like previously in the alley. She clearly did not enjoy the way he toyed with her as if she were a ball of yarn meant to be tossed between his claws.

"No. Clearly, you are here because you have sought escape several times. And from what I have seen of those scars upon your wrists, you have failed miserably. Tell me truly, Ms. Fiametta, did you even bleed? Those cuts are so shallow that not even a crimson drop was shed. Am I correct?"

Color dapples the cheeks of her pretty face at his words, anger and shame intermingled upon the creases of her forehead. Hands, which were trembling, subconsciously tightened around its counterparts wrists as if the pressure would make the lines of her attempted shame disappear.

"It is not death you fear, Ms. Fiammetta. It is the act of death that frightens you. Despite your anger and indifference towards the world, you still cling miserably to the tethers of your pathetic life – unable to take that final step. That is why you are here. You could easily throw yourself off a bridge or building, hang yourself, and ingest copious amounts of drugs until you fall into that final sleep. But that is not enough, is it Ms. Fiammetta? What you _want_, what you _desire_, is a _meaningful_ death. You want to be remembered in your last days. That is why you sought after me for months."

Sad, angry tears pooled in those emerald eyes. But still, she said nothing.

"I shall make this transition easier for you, my dear. I wish for you to be _my_ Eloisa for a period of time with my choice of length. I want to see how you process different forms of pain. It would please me immensely to learn how your mind works." He paused, allowing her to understand the relationship that would foster between them. "If, however, your obstinacy proves to be a grievance towards my patience, I will throw you back onto the streets with a level of pain and anguish that your little mind has not ever conceived before."

Still no reponse.

"If your effort within this exchange pleases me, I will be willing to put you out of your misery."

The young red-head remained docile, chin quivering, upon the couch. Instantly, John knew she would not bolt; her hopes currently lied with him. Standing to his full towering height, he stretched his arms and back and worked the kinks from his muscles.

"Please do take the time to consider my proposal. I have other business to attend to and I shall return in a few hours. Do feel free to use my home for any of your necessities."

With a graceful bow, he exited the living room and made his way towards the closet near the front door. Donning one of his leather jackets, Druitt could not help but feel that glorious adrenaline running through his veins. The rush of power was heady and filled him with such youthful vigor. With a sinful grin, he exited his home and gathered his thoughts before feeling that familiar ripping sensation.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I know, really dark turn. But this is an analysis of choice. So what happens next? And now it is official, Ashley is alive! Take that! And yes we will see more of her in the next couple of chapters, as well as see the interaction between John and Helen in future chapters and I tell you folks, it ain't pretty. Someone is going to get hurt, big time.

Please read and review! Reviews make my heart pitter-patter.

-two finger salute-

Entrenched out.


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